


A Bright Pair of Eyes

by ProfessorDrarry



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Career Change, Drug Abuse, M/M, References to Addiction, References to Depression, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-08-20 11:35:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 44,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16555007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorDrarry/pseuds/ProfessorDrarry
Summary: Harry fought in a war. And Draco knows that he did. But what if the knowing is not enough to save each other? What if Harry is simply too broken to be saved?





	1. Part One: Bright Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Beta thanks to haidomi and dotthewriter :)

_You're just bones_

_and a beating heart_

_and a pair of bright eyes,_

_how did you fuck me up so bad?_

* * *

 

Harry was staring again; he gave his head a small shake and tried to look interested as Kingsley spoke, attempting to refocus on what the Minister was saying. After all, that had been his promise, at the beginning of the end. He had sworn that they would be able to work together. That they could carry on as normal.

He was pretty sure that working together did not include staring in desperation during interdepartmental meetings. It also probably did not involve watching for the familiar, beautiful, impossibly small adjustments everyone made: checking for changes in the set of his jaw, or the crinkle of eyes when he thought something was stupid. The unconscious brush of a hand against silvery blond hair, pushing it out of his eyes, just as Harry had once done for him. These things that he noticed were not something he was allowed to be doing anymore. They were not part of the amicable co-worker pact he had agreed to many months ago.

He sighed loudly, forgetting he was mid-meeting. To his great fortune, Kingsley met his eyes and simply nodded.

"Harry is right,” he decided. “We're talking in circles. Let's break now and reconvene tomorrow instead. In the meantime… Andrew, can you see if you can get that paperwork filed? And Draco, I trust you are still looking into the appointment of a new liaison?"

Draco nodded, still looking decidedly at the table rather than his co-workers. Kingsley handed out tasks to a few more people then dismissed them. Draco seemed to vanish the second the meeting ended. Harry just caught sight of him ducking out of the room, and immediately screamed internally at himself for noticing.

"Alright, Potter? You said you needed to speak to me?" Kingsley asked, dragging Harry’s attention back to the room.

He nodded, glancing around to check that the room had fully emptied. "I wonder if we might discuss… a shift. In my appointment,” he murmured pathetically. “I, er, miss the field."

Kingsley gazed down at him appraisingly but nodded shortly before replying, "Yes, I've been expecting that. I can move you, obviously, but the field?” he asked, sceptical. “Really? I seem to recall a desperate plea to have a desk job just one year ago. I could put you in a different office, perhaps?"

Harry shook his head vehemently. He cleared his throat and forced himself to make eye contact. "Please, Kingsley,” he begged. “A lot can change in a year. It isn't what you think. I miss the action. I… this was never what _I_ wanted."

He tried not to let the bitterness he felt edge into his voice, but he suspected he had failed, given Kingsley's short intake of breath and another clipped incline of the head.

Regardless, by the end of the day, he had a new assignment. He had also inherited a new partner — a young recruit whose voice reminded him unpleasantly of Winky's, but who was otherwise tolerable — and a rotation of surveillance in Hogsmeade. He hadn't lied to Kingsley, not really. He _had_ been missing the action of the field. He had just failed to remember how boring it really was at the end of the day. He'd forgotten how much of his time was actually spent _sitting,_ uncomfortably, in cold, dark, cramped places, _waiting_ for something to happen.

He had forgotten how much time he was going to have with his own thoughts.

That had made the sleeping potions his only real option if he planned to continue to survive. For the next few weeks, he spent most nights avoiding going to bed; dozing unhappily on the couch until he conceded the point and, most often, slept in the guest room. Even that bed wasn't free of fantastic heated memory, not the way they had used the house, but at least it had rarely been seen for sleep alone.

It’s not that it actually helped him sleep, but at least he didn’t feel phantom arms encircling him when he curled his aching joints into those uncomfortable sheets.

Ginny, of course, noticed first. Over drinks at the bar, a decision he had regretted the minute he had walked in, she took him by the hand and forced him to look at her.

"Harry," she began for the fifteenth time. "Have you _still_ not heard me? Merlin, you're really not doing well… Ron said, but then he always exaggerates everything, especially when it comes to you or Hermione, or the kids."

"I'm fine," Harry muttered in response.

But he heard his own voice, knew he sounded nothing like himself. And even _he_ didn't believe the words he was muttering. He felt her gentle hand on his cheek; her knuckle brushing the dark circles beneath his eyes as she clucked quietly.

"How many nights a week are you taking that stuff?" she demanded, harshness sharpening her normally honeyed tone.

He blurted a short, dark sound, which may have been construed as a laugh in another world, one that wasn’t as broken and twisted as it was now.

"Oh," replied Ginny, understanding. She inhaled deeply, hesitating before she continued. Harry gestured for her to go on. "Would you consider...you know, back on the horse, other fish in the sea, and all that?"

Harry looked at her darkly and took a swig of his whiskey.

"Right. Okay. So not yet,” Ginny conceded with a small smile. “Well, fine, but I'm not going to sit around and watch you become some sort of strung out potion addict because you’re sad about a boy. You'd never allow it of _me_."

He smiled a very small smile at this. She was right, after all. He wouldn't. He knew what was coming, the patented Weasley Intervention. He wasn't sure what she planned to do, but he knew would let her do it. He was well aware that he was fucked no matter what, so there was no point in worrying his friends further by refusing to accept their help and patience.

As time went on, however, he became more and more exhausted by the decision to let her help him.

Confusingly, Ginny's plan seemed to be an annoyingly regular presence in his life. She started by making small, bizarre requests for help. It started with mundane tasks that she obviously did not actually need help with; she would show up at the house requesting company while she went to the bank, or help to babysit Rose and baby Hugo, or to be her buddy on adventures into muggle London.

At first, he was exhausted every time she left him alone again. The emotional pain would throw itself back on him as soon as he Apparated home. Since he'd been robbed of his wallowing time and his despondency for the day, he would take it late into the evening before passing out wherever he was from pure exhaustion.

Eventually, though, these things turned into a routine. He would work forever during the week, only leaving early when he had dinner plans with Nev and Luna, or when Hermione insisted he come over for movie nights with the kids. On the weekends, Ginny would fill his time; he wasn't sure how she was convincing her relatively new boyfriend that this was okay, but Ginny wasn't generally one to be trifled with once she had decided on something.

He would know.

With this regular, insistent help, Harry cobbled out a new sort of life for himself; a new normal, where he sometimes managed to stop his mind from going over and over the endless litany of things he'd messed up. Where occasionally, he _laughed_. He got himself to a point where Rose stopped fake whispering _'what's wrong with uncle Harry?'_ every time she thought he couldn’t hear him. He could play with them and laugh and joke, and it almost looked like he was himself again.

For two months, it all worked quite well.

But then Ginny decided she wanted to go grocery shopping. On _Saturday_. He hated the shops on Saturdays with very good reason. Ginny, as usual, had refused his refusal. She had talked him into coming through the strategic use of pointed glares over actual words. In another time, he'd have risked being punched for the chance to tell her how much she looked like her mother at that moment.

They’d wandered the aisles, with Harry only half listening to the stories from her week, leaning heavily on the trolly and trying to stay awake. The night before had not been a particularly good one in terms of sleep, and he was sure he looked exhausted.

Which is, inevitably, when it happened.

He’d turned a corner instead of waiting for her; waiting for Ginny to choose a brand of crumpet was an exhausting process. He was looking back at her to say he’d be near the eggs, meaning he ran straight into them.

The first thing Harry noticed was the laughing; he was laughing that lighthearted laugh that made Harry's heart leap appreciatively despite the many months of distance, despite the pain and fear. The laugh was accompanied by the touching. He his hand on the arm of a very tall, relatively handsome bloke, who was smiling and teasing, continuing a story he was obviously midway through.

When Draco finally looked up, his lips formed a comically slow _'oh'_ , before he nonchalantly withdrew his arm as though it wasn't far too late for that action. He didn't speak directly to Harry. He nodded at him vaguely but didn't look him in the eye as he turned to the tall man.

"Sorry,” Draco murmured. “Er, Ed. This is Harry. My...my..."

Ed's mouth opened in surprise as well and, in the back of his awareness, Harry heard him start exclaiming things about his identity as _Harry Potter,_ but Harry definitely wasn't listening. He was instead boring a hole into the side of Draco's head, silently screaming and cursing and willing Draco to continue to speak.

 _Your what_ , his brain demanded. _Your WHAT? Your ex? Your old friend? Archrival? Acquaintance? Co-worker? Latest victim?_

He desperately needed to hear how Draco categorised him now, in the _After_. But it was clear that Draco did not plan on finishing his sentence. He was smiling a large, frighteningly fake grin, listening as 'Ed' made a fool of himself, and trying to delicately extract them both from the situation. Harry made it easier for them and fled first, leaving the cart behind just as Ginny came round the corner, visibly baulking at the scene before her.

By the time he reached the outside of the shop, Harry was barely breathing, the hyperventilating feeling familiar and unsurprising. He was stuck, like the murky water at the bottom of a rain barrel. He wanted to run, to fly, escape. He didn’t want to face Ginny — or even more horrifying, Draco — and yet his body was unable to move. He clawed at the collar of his coat, dragging it away from his body until his neck was bare. He ripped his hands through his hair, trying to slow his breathing. Suddenly, Ginny was in front of him, directing him to sit on a bench, crouching at his feet, muttering soothing sounds until his gasps subsided a bit and he could actually see her, hear her words.

"Oh, Harry,” she soothed once she noticed his attention shift to her. “You've got to tell me what happened. Seriously. You have to."

 


	2. Rewind

The snippets of memory that interrupted his sleep were always the same: a persistent reel of happy moments, clouded by sudden fights, misplaced anger, and true fear. But to explain, to tell anyone what happened, he had to go back. Right back. All the way to the beginning. Before everything. Three years ago seemed like a lifetime when he tried to sum it up.

He did not come out of this story sounding good. He knew it. Largely because, in the beginning, he had only intended to do one thing: sleep with Draco Malfoy.

Now, this wasn't exactly something characteristic for him; were he a more vindictive man, he might have been tempted to blame the whole thing on Ron. He should have known better from the start. As much as he loved Ron, respected him for a great many things, relationship advice was one thing better left to another source. And advice about how to improve his emotional turmoil? Definitely not Ronald Bilius Weasley. But, way back when, Ron had said the simple phrase, 'You know what you need? Just fun. Nothing more exciting. Nothing permanent. Just fun.' and Harry had been easy to persuade.

It had seemed, at the time, like the answer.

They were six months out of Auror training. Babies. Brand new and way too fresh in the field. To save them from themselves, they had not been given anything more taxing than Secrecy Act infractions since leaving day, and the job was quickly proving almost boring; sitting in an on-call room, shooting the shit and drinking way too much coffee with their fellow first-year officers. At twenty-three, it probably should have been fun, but instead, it was driving Harry mental.

He had spent the past five years in constant motion. When he hadn’t been travelling with his friends or rebuilding Hogwarts, or suffering the intensity of Auror training, he was used to being busy. So busy, in fact, that he hadn't had to address any of the nightmares that occasionally woke him up. He'd been able to ignore the random moments of fear and panic so deep he would have to go and hide somewhere until they passed. He'd gotten so good at ignoring them that he doubted if anyone but Ron had noticed.

Now, though, the sitting and the waiting were starting to get to him. He was always restless, and the fact that his body wasn't physically exhausted at the end of each day meant that the nightmares were back in full force. Nightly, Voldemort killed Dumbledore, only to turn around and kill everyone Harry had ever known in one, sweeping, deadly green arc. He'd wake up screaming in a cold sweat, alone in the darkness and unable to get back to sleep.

Then he would get angry at himself for being so weak.

Voldemort was gone. He was the reason Voldemort was gone, for Merlin's sake. Allowing himself to still be afraid meant that the evil had won. Voldemort would have liked nothing more than to know that he was still feared, even after his death. So Harry would be angry that he was allowing these thoughts into his subconscious, and consequently feel like he couldn't confide in anyone. The cycle was vicious. It was lonely. It was exhausting.

Queue Ron, believing that Harry's restlessness was simply boredom. Leave it to Ron to suggest a conquest, his favourite way of living vicariously through Harry without getting in trouble with his now-wife; from the moment that Harry had admitted that he was less than picky about the gender of those he slept with, Ron had taken it as an opportunity to set him up with as many people as possible.

And so.

Like a terrible play where you can already see the ending, Enter DRACO MALFOY. Harry could still clearly remember the conversation from that day, almost word for word. They’d had their boots off, trading Quidditch magazines ver another cuppa that none of them needed, and Ron had looked up to see a blond, scowling head wander quietly into the room to fill his own mug.

Malfoy.

Older and yet unchanged, leaner yet even more sophisticated, lacking the youthful sneer that had so easily landed on his face yet now sporting a leery, untrusting stance.

Favouring slight scruff and long bangs, Harry had to admit that Malfoy was fitter than he’d ever seemed at school. It was… intriguing. The Aurors didn't see him that often, since Malfoy’s position in the incarceration department rarely required him to leave his office. Still, even in these brief, rare moments, Harry had noticed him. And, apparently, Ron had noticed him noticing.

"You know what would be hilarious," Ron began, looking back and forth between Harry and the coffee pot with ever-increasing interest. " _And_ fun?"

"Ron,” Harry warned. “Whatever you are about to suggest, it isn't happening. Even your eyebrows are untrustworthy right now."

"No, hear me out,” Ron chuckled. “It'll just be a laugh. You should try and… erm… seduce Malfoy."

Harry nearly choked. "Ron. Not funny."

Ron shrugged. "Maybe not, but you are always looking at him like he's a piece of treacle tart.” He sniggered when Harry did, in fact, choke on his tea. “Besides. I said 'fun' not 'undying romance and soul mate’. What could be more fun than toying with a former enemy for your own gain?"

"Ron, 'enemy'? Really. We were children."

"And now," said Ron suggestively, tilting his head in Malfoy’s direction. "We are not."

Harry knew even then that he should have listened to his gut and ignored Ron's random, terrible jokes. He might have, in fact, had Malfoy not chosen that exact moment to turn; he eyed Harry carefully with steely, storm-coloured eyes. The gaze was neither appreciative nor scathing, but it was there, and that was somehow worse. That one looked forced Harry into action before he even understood what he was doing.

He stood and grabbed his almost empty cup and wandered over to the coffee pot.

"Mr Malfoy,” he said casually as he got closer.

"Potter,” Malfoy replied suspiciously.

"Having a good Wednesday so far?" Harry continued.

“I…can't complain."

"Good,” Harry said with a smile.

He could have left it at that, walked away and ignored his instincts. It would have been a safe enough decision. Later, Maloy might have wondered why he had spoken at all, and then forgotten about it.

Instead, having filled his cup, Harry leaned back against the counter, turned to face Malfoy, who quirked an eyebrow in question. Harry didn't reply for a moment, but for some reason, Malfoy also stayed rooted to the spot. They were locked in a strange and intense stance, both daring the other to leave first.

"I like your robes," Harry muttered eventually, taking a careful, calculated sip, but not breaking eye contact with the man who was now staring him down.

"Standard issue for Enforcement, Potter. You know that.” Draco said with a frown. Are you… are you mocking me?"

"No, no. I just. Think you're lucky. The colour suits you," Harry admitted. He pushed off the counter and walked as calmly as he could back to the table, where Ron was pretending not to watch. He felt, rather than heard, the shocked sputter from Malfoy, but when he turned to look, the blonde was gone.

“What the fuck did you just do?” Ron asked with a laugh.

"Phew. This is going to be tough," Harry said quietly to Ron.

"I'll give you a Galleon if you can convince him to go out with you by the end of the month."

Harry laughed, for what felt like the first time in ages, and replied, “You're on."

* * *

 

Randomly placing compliments on an individual who you never see, and more importantly, who does not trust you, is not enough to convince them that they should date you. Particularly, Harry suspected, when that person also happened to be your former childhood rival.

Harry knew right away that he had to get craftier. For the rest of the week, he found reasons to go down to Magical Law Enforcement and Containment; sometimes, he hand-delivered memos that should have been sent by charm. Other times, he pretended to be inquiring about a former case with one of the officers who had filed the paperwork. Once, he brought the entire department coffee, complete with cranberry scones he had bought from the fancy bakery. That particular act had cinched it. It signalled the end of the careful, guarded observing that Malfoy had been using as his defense mechanism.

"What are you doing, Potter? What have I done to warrant observation?" Malfoy snapped as Harry approached the lift. He grabbed Harry by the arm and whirled him around. "It's been six months, and you've managed to ignore me until now. What is this about? Was I just stupid to believe we were going to put childish schemes behind us now that we were both Ministry employees?”

Harry looked down at Malfoy's hand on his arm, intrigued by the instant fire that he felt there. It was peculiar to be attracted to someone you barely knew. Harry had always felt strange about physical chemistry, like it didn't belong there and would get him in trouble. Part of the problem was that quite often it had—for example, during his disastrous dalliance with Cho. Now though, as his face flushed pleasantly and his pulse quickened, he wanted to whoop with joy. Emotion, in any form, was a win. Still, he had a goal. He had to focus. He flicked his gaze back to Malfoy’s face.

"You’re right, Malfoy. I should stop with the schemes,” he reassured. “If you must know, I've been trying to come up with any excuse to talk to you."

"What? Why? I haven't done anything,” Malfoy argued. He dropped his hand, though Harry felt his fingers linger like a poltergeist. “Whatever it is you've decided I am responsible for, you can fuck off. I've been in this job since before you and your little Baby Auror friends had Ministry ID. I’ve paid my dues.”

The defensiveness gave Harry pause. Of course, Malfoy would think that he was trying to catch him out at something; that had always been the nature of their relationship. He frowned. This really was a colossally bad idea, whatever this was.

"Malfoy, I can assure you that I know you aren’t up to anything. My boss is always singing your praises; apparently, you champion even the most hopeless of cases? Make sure they get a fair sentence?” Harry listed all the things Malfoy was known for in the upper corridors. It was baffling, but for some reason, Harry already believed these things. He shrugged. “By all accounts, you are very good at your job."

Malfoy hesitated. "Then why the hell do you keep coming down here!? I demand an explanation." He crossed his arms haughtily on his chest, looking more like his former self and comforting Harry into a short laugh.

"Well," began Harry, weighing the possible consequences of his next sentence. "Draco…you do look very good in those ministry robes."

He had unintentionally dropped the level of his voice, and that, combined with the words, forced Malfoy to sputter in surprise. Harry wisely walked away and went back to his floor. These things took time.

He had been successful, however. Three days into his conquest and he had turned the tables. Suddenly, Malfoy seemed to be around more often than before. He was eating in the common areas, he appeared for interdepartmental meetings that he had previously skipped, and he came to morning roster, which he didn't technically have to do. And, he was watching Harry. He really was quite gorgeous, and Harry was completely fine with making him slightly frazzled by returning his confused gaze. For a few days. Almost a week, really. Harry ignored him for what felt like ages.

Then, for lack of a better word, he may have pounced. One day, after roster, Harry followed Malfoy out of the conference room and quietly got into the lift behind him. When he noticed, Malfoy gave an adorable small jump of surprise that made Harry grin. For a moment, Harry just focused on appearing nonplussed; he folded his arms and leaned against the wall of the lift.

"Malfoy."

"Potter,” Malfoy sighed. “Merlin, stop. Just… leave it."

"I don't know that I've done much of anything, really,” Harry remarked. “Although, the Aurors are certainly seeing much more of you lately."

Malfoy didn't seem to have a reply to that, but he did move even further toward the other wall of the lift, shoving his hands in the pockets of his robes and not meeting Harry's eye.

"What do you want, Potter?" he demanded suddenly.

"Go out with me," Harry replied in a less than dignified rush.

"I— Wait,” Malfoy stuttered. “What? What do you mean?"

"Oh you know, a drink. Or a meal if we are adventurous enough?" Harry pressed on. "A walk, even. Somewhere other than the Ministry. You. Me."

Malfoy finally looked at him, mouth open slightly, "Merlin, you have got to be kidding me. You are Harry fucking Potter. I, in case you have forgotten, am Draco fucking Malfoy. You do not want to go out with me. Not to eat food. Or go for a drink. Or a bloody walk."

"Well, strictly, no," said Harry, shrugging his shoulders. "I'd rather just take you home and… to put it politely, jump your bones. But society has taught me that most people aren't huge fans of that direction. I'm completely cool with it if you are, though."

That got Malfoy; his hands left his pockets to rifle his hair. He let out an embarrassed and exasperated sigh, shaking his head vigorously and stepping off the wall.

"Come on, one date,” Harry insisted. “I'd like to hear about your work…what you've been up to. All that. You don't talk to me as it is, so there's nothing to ruin if it's awful. We can go back to politely ignoring each other."

Malfoy laughed bitterly. " _When_ it's awful,” he argued. “You hate me, remember? Besides. How do you even…you don't even know that I…"

"What? Date blokes? Guess you're right, actually. Wait!" Harry said, suddenly realizing something, letting his arms fall and standing straight up dramatically. "I don't actually know that you've ever dated anyone."

Malfoy looked indignant, "I have."

Harry laughed gently, amusement colouring his tone. “Oh, well now you have to go out with me. Was it people at school?”

Malfoy, unconsciously, returned Harry’s grin; he felt his heart stutter in exaltation before he had a chance to quell his expectations and take a deep breath.

"You'll at least have to buy me a drink before I tell you that story,” Malfoy quipped, forcing Harry’s jaw to drop. Had he actually won this argument?

"So I can buy you a drink, then?" he asked carefully.

Malfoy paused, looking cornered. He didn't speak again until the lift opened, announcing its arrival at the Enforcement offices.

"Fine," he said as he walked out the double doors, almost angrily stomping as he did, clearly annoyed at his concession."But I swear to all that is sacred, Potter, if this is some sort of plot, I will gladly lose my job in order to properly curse you."

"Sounds fair,” Harry laughed, stepping forward to stop the doors closing. “Tomorrow?" he asked hastily.

Malfoy simply nodded as the lift doors finally closed.

* * *

 

They had gone for drinks in Muggle London, at Harry's insistence. He still got recognized most wizarding places, and he wasn't interested in an autograph-filled evening. Surprisingly, Malfoy looked slightly sympathetic when he had explained this, agreeing almost right away to the change in location.

"Must be annoying," he had said. "Being constantly reminded of that day, people treating you like a hero."

Harry, ridiculously, had felt very emotional at this statement. He had never been able to explain it to Ron and Hermione so succinctly.

The evening had been pleasant, although not overly date-like. Malfoy, it turned out, was actually quite funny, if in an acerbic sort of way. It was like he had taken all the meanness and bullying of his youth and channelled it into observational wit and self-deprecating humour. As he described his time since school, he seemed content, and not at all like the person Harry had pretended he knew in their youth. It was surprising.

More interesting by far, though, was how attentively Malfoy listened to Harry as he returned his stories of the past six years. As he described his travel and the training, and his final end in the career he'd always wanted, Malfoy watched him calmly, taking everything in, no judgement in his delicate features.

When Harry had finished, though, he’d cleared his throat. He began his sentence two or three times. Finally, he sighed and stated, "Forgive me, Potter, but you realize you don't actually seem all that…"

"Happy?" Harry had finished wryly.

"Hm,” Malfoy agreed.

"Well,” Harry said, “it's not really what I was expecting."

Malfoy laughed. "All the first-years say that,” he explained. “I've seen five groups of you go through, remember? And you're all the same. ‘it's boring, we want action, why did they train us if we were just going to sit’. And I don’t get it. You all seem to think they were going to let you handle serial killers on your first day. Seriously?”

Harry smiled, took a sip, and shrugged, "Kind of, yeah."

And that had earned him his first, real, unreserved Draco Malfoy laugh. It was rich, and full, and required all of his faculties to listen attentively. He was instantly hooked. Malfoy took his last swig, and stood up, shouldering his coat in that dignified way that Harry thought only people in films pulled off.

"Well, thanks for the drink, Potter. It wasn't altogether unpleasant."

"Harry," he had replied, sticking out his hand.

"Draco," Malfoy said after a beat, offering his own hand hesitatingly. "We should…I mean, we could. If you want. Dinner, another time maybe?"

Harry opened his mouth to reply, then hesitated as a thought struck him. He inhaled deeply, resisted the urge to wince, and blurted, “Draco, why did you say yes? To tonight?"

Malfoy grinned at him. "Sheer curiosity, Potter. Curiosity is a powerful thing. I had to know."

"Know? Know what?" Harry asked.

"If there was an actual human behind those ridiculous green eyes. Till next time, Harry."

* * *

 

And so that, as they say, was that. That was it. One night that started a train of similar nights; evenings with a strange tone of friendship, which eventually led to dinner, and a walk to see deer in a park because Draco had never seen them. Coffee by the Thames one Wednesday just because. Small, insignificant moments that became less insignificant in tiny intervals that neither of them understood.

It was strange, actually getting to know Malfoy, but in a good way. In the best way. Harry felt oddly lighter every time they met and he watched Malfoy react same way; with slight, infinitesimally small changes in how reserved he was around Harry. Far from refusing to look Harry in the eye, he now regularly spoke to him at work, even in front of other people. He would go out of his way to ask for an opinion on cases or shoot the shit in the break room. It wasn’t long before other people noticed too. They started leaving a space open for Draco at the table, asked him questions unprompted. The whole Auror department took in Draco Malfoy without batting an eye.

Initially, the openness had freaked Ron out; Draco would wander over to their table at lunchtime, say something observational or poignant, and then walk away with a hurried 'see you later, right?' to Harry. It took nearly a month, but Harry saw the day that Ron and Draco were actually pretty close to civility, fighting over Quidditch and sharing biscuits. He marvelled at the brave new world he seemed to have inadvertently created.

For all these changes, however, Harry had still not actually completed his task; he still had not slept with Draco Malfoy. The goal had silently changed, sure, but Harry was no less convinced that he wanted Malfoy. He hadn’t failed for want of trying; Harry, he had to credit himself, knew how to pull. Malfoy was an enigma.

Largely because Harry was often left wondering what bell Draco had heard that had made him decide it was time to leave. Malfoy always left on his terms, and therefore, Harry never had the chance to stop the disappearing act he obviously had perfected. He wanted to stop him, to freeze Draco with the physical contact his body was now screaming for. As much as their conversations had opened up, that first touch on Harry's arm by the lift was the most Draco had allowed since, and he wasn't sure he could stand it much longer. Still, something gave him pause. Something made Harry leave it alone.

Until one day, when Harry thought he might explode, about five adventures into their weird changing, blossoming friendship.

Harry had agreed to spend an afternoon in Moretecue, the small, wizard-only seaside town. It had been pleasant and mysterious, vaguely exciting. It was fascinating to see Malfoy in his element, strolling and pausing to show Harry some random thing, enjoying the warm breeze. They were just idly chatting and wandering the high street when the wind lifted Draco's bangs suddenly and flopped them over; it was the most dishevelled Harry had ever seen him, and it took him by surprise, the force of the attraction. The heat and the curled thread of approval in the pit of his stomach was back again.

He stopped dead in his tracks, grabbed Draco by the hand, drew him close, and kissed him soundly. After a small moment of sheer panic, Draco clearly decided worse things could be happening and kissed back. With one step taken, the floodgates of their obvious physical desire for each other collapsed. The way Harry remembered it, they had barely made it back to the flat before being arrested for public indecency. They may have had no idea what they were doing, may have been mismatched and confusing from the outside, but as Draco dragged Harry's name from kiss-swollen lips at the heat of climax, Harry decided that they could sort the rest out later.

And that was it. He was done.

"Only kidding," said Harry, as Ginny shot him a look of dismay from his apparent conclusion. "That was the beginning though… only the beginning. You needed to know, though. You weren’t here. You spent that whole year on the road."

She gestured over her cup of tea, begging him to go on, explain the rest. The things she actually wanted to hear. She was, just as most people would be, waiting for the ship to sink. Waiting for the sound of the explosion.

 _Wouldn't it be nice though?_ thought Harry, sighing. _Wouldn't it be nice if the rest were a fairy tale and happily ever after, and history?_

But, as the old song goes, the night is only half the day.

 

_The play is not done_

_Oh, no, not quite_

_For life never ends_

_In the moonlit night._

_And despite what pretty poets say_

_The night is only half the day._

\- The Fantasticks, Schmidt and Jones


	3. Veneer

"We never really had the conversation after that,” Harry admitted. “Before I knew it, we just __were__ and then, all of a sudden, six months had flown by and I had been an Auror for a year."

"I know we all thought it was a little concerning," Ginny replied softly from across the table. She took his hand gently, snapping his eyes back to hers. "How close you were, so quickly."

Harry sighed, remembering the struggle. Those first months had been intense. Perhaps even __unhealthy.__ He understood, in hindsight, how his friends had felt and where their distrust stemmed from. He got why they had been concerned, but he’d been furious with them at the time. When he looked at it through their eyes now, he saw the boy who had been his enemy suddenly occupying all of his time.

Draco and Harry had so quickly become inseparable that they didn’t have time to question the wisdom of it all. When people challenged him, Harry argued that since everything between them had always been irrationally intense, it made perfect sense that a relationship would be the same. It was hard to explain that to people who had only known Draco as cartoonishly evil, the cause of all annoyance for six years, the source of real concern for the final year that mattered. At the time, Harry hadn’t been able to correlate that with the man who stood before him now, all soft edges and whispered jokes and vulnerable affection. That was really the problem; his friends were on the __outside__. They didn't know __his__ Draco, the new one. Sure, he was attractive, and Harry refused to discount that, but his friends didn't know the things he knew. They didn't get to see his giddy excitement about going to Muggle films. They didn't see him embarrassed because he was slightly drunk and wobbly. They didn't know that when he drank, he was so affectionate and emboldened that Harry spent most of the time they were in a pub slightly breathless.

From the outside, no one would know what it felt like to break down steely composure from the blond with soft words and compliments, only to be rewarded with rare, hard-earned, public affection. They didn’t know that making Draco laugh was not easy and so learning what worked was worth the effort. They didn't know that once Draco was in Harry’s bed more often than not, the nightmares immediately disappeared.

The day they got it lived in his memory as fresh and as real as all the pain that followed it.

It was Harry's favourite memory of the relationship; he was pretty sure it was the moment where he managed to move Draco from outside to family in the minds of his closest people.

For their one year anniversary of being on the Auror team, Hermione had decided they needed to throw a party. Not a big bash, really. Just close friends. Neville and Luna, Humphrey and McLennan from their training class. Hermione had charmed a banner to dance around the walls of the room singing __no more accidental magic cases__ , and Ron had made his signature lasagna and homemade garlic bread. A relaxed evening with the air of celebration, wine flowing, and joviality all around. They sat around after dinner trading stories, and Draco was definitely on point, relaxed and sophisticated his complicated trousers and Harry's favourite soft blue jumper, a glass twirling gently in his hands as he told the story of his first case to Neville. Harry was completely enamoured. He could do nothing but stare in awe at how Draco held a room.

"So,” Draco continued, “when I finally got the ostrich __out__ of the cell, and the prisoners out of the __trench__ , I'm expecting to be in huge shit with Montgomery. But he just looks at me, straight-faced, and says ' _ _make sure you file a C-450__ ,' and walks away.”

The entire room erupted in laughter, pushing Draco to grin into his wine glass, eyeing Harry and begging him silently to join him. When Harry was settled beside him, Draco glanced over and subtly shuffled his leg into contact with Harry's.

"It's all going to change now, you realize," Draco said gravely to the wider room. "Are you all ready? Montgomery is disturbingly predictable for a Head Auror. One year is all you get to be babysat. The real cases will start pouring in now.” He pointed at Ron meaningfully. “No more __Cannons Today__ and exploding snap in the break room."

"Thank bloody Merlin," shouted Ron, throwing his hands in the air and standing to offer everyone more wine.

The rest of the night had been just as wonderful. Hermione hugged Draco as he and Harry left, patting them both on the shoulders. Sure, she was a little drunk, but the meaning behind her words did not change.

“I’m glad you came,” she said. “Try to convince Harry to eat vegetables once in a while.”

Harry knew, then, that Draco had won. He had convinced them that he was not his eleven-year-old self anymore. Instead, he was worthy of Neville's affection, and Hermione's concern, and Ron's firm nod and a jarring handshake.

Worthy of Harry's __love__.

The word slammed into his chest as they Apparated, and made him panic slightly. He had never told someone he loved them. He wasn't aware it was a thing he was hesitant to do, but at that moment, he realized he was terrified. He choked it down and ignored the inclination. Now was not the time.

"Harry," Draco said as they got into his bed. "Are you actually ready? I'm not kidding, the work is going to get much trickier from now on. Do you… was your training—"

"You know, D," Harry grinned, pulling Draco to him and nibbling his ear, an act that always elicited Harry's favourite sounds in the world. “You sound suspicious like you might be __worried__ about me.”

"Of course I am,” Draco grumbled. “It's not that I don't trust you, but…"

"Draco, it's going to be fine,” Harry said soothingly. “Aurors are very well trained, and I think, out of everyone, Ron and I have proved ourselves capable."

Draco sighed and wrapped his arms around Harry, pulling him even closer to whisper, "I know, but please stop being a hero. I feel like I've just found you; I'm not ready to face losing you."

As usual, these intense moments of openly given vulnerability undid Harry, and he found he was unable to respond for the sake of devouring Draco's mouth, wrapping his entire being around the blond, and easing the worry away with carefully placed kisses, and mouths used for other, far more important tasks.

* * *

 

The time slipped past them as time does, but things did not become less intense. Eventually, Harry did manage to tell Draco he loved him, although Draco said it first. They continued to explore the countryside with small leaps and bounds, something Harry had never envisioned enjoying again after the Horcrux hunt.

Within the year, Draco moved into Harry's house.

By the end of the summer, Draco's prophetic remarks about his career had started to come true; Harry was sent on more and more gruesome cases, with him and Ron's proficiency with solving things quickly fueling greater and greater confidence from Montgomery. Very soon, Potter/Weasley became the go-to team for cases with weird puzzles to solve, and Harry was so busy travelling across the country that he relished the moments where he got to go home.

All of this would have been perfect; it was Harry's dream life come to pass, and he should have been stupidly, __deliriously__ happy. For the first three months of this increased workload, he had been. He revelled in the fact that he was trusted, a good Auror, triumphing over his initial doubts and hesitations. He loved coming home exhausted and hungry to find a whistling, soft-haired blond puttering about in the kitchen despite his insistence that he would not become Harry's '1950s housewife'. He'd been so grateful those first few weeks that he had often found inventive ways to reduce Draco to finishing meal prep in only his pants. Things were good. Yet, in the back of his mind, Harry wondered. He wondered how long he could go before the nightmares came back. He wondered how long it would be before the panic returned. But, although he did wonder these things, it seemed too good, too safe, too right, in those first three months, to bother questioning when it would all collapse.

And collapse it did.


	4. Pretend

 

Near his birthday, in the middle of a heat wave, Harry and Ron were assigned a new case in Leeds. It had seemed quite simple, if a bit sad and gruesome. A double homicide, although it was possible another case was linked. He had thought nothing of it as he packed a bag, and neither had Draco, who had kissed him soundly and made him promise not to miss his own birthday party. He and Ron had set off full of nervous excitement, the usual mood before a new case. They were gone for nearly two weeks. 

When Harry apparated home a fortnight later, he had known already that something was wrong. Being away had not been good; he had spent the past three days unable to catch his breath, occasionally drifting into full-blown panic. When he had Apparated away from the reports at the Ministry, he briefly wondered if he should go straight to St. Mungo's, but decided he was overreacting. After all, nothing had happened. He'd had no physical trauma. He was probably just tired and keyed up from the case. 

Instead, he had gone straight home, showered, then crawled into bed, even though it was barely half five in the evening. He curled into a tight ball and didn't move. Even when he heard Draco floo in downstairs. Even when he bounded up the stairs and straight into bed, curling tightly around Harry's back. 

Harry didn’t explain himself, instead whispering, "You realize it's a bit hot to be this close."

Draco chuckled, pressing kisses to Harry's bare back, "Don't care. Missed you. Did you solve it?" 

"Yes," Harry said softly.

The murders had been committed by a Death Eater. He bore the mark, shouting as he was arrested about a return to the ‘old ways’. That the true believers would never truly die, about how he was just the first and that others would follow. 

At the time, Ron and Harry had simply shaken their heads and agreed he was a nutter, but that had been three days ago, and no matter what he did, Harry couldn't stop picturing the dark-haired man waving his forearm at him and threatening Muggle-borns. The nightmares were back and his head hurt from lack of sleep. 

He looked down at Draco's pale arm, finding the fading dark mark there, and winced until he realised what it meant that Draco's mark was nearly invisible now. If Draco's mark was almost gone, then evil could not have returned. And Draco could not have any intention of returning to 'old ways'. Full of irrational relief, he pulled the arm to his mouth and kissed it fiercely, nearly sobbing as panic left him. Of course, he knew that Draco wasn't actually a _____Death Eater_____. They had talked about their 17th year endlessly in the first month of their relationship out of necessity. Draco hated the marred skin on his forearm. That had been the last time Harry had kissed that skin, and the repeat of it now startled Draco into forcing Harry to turn around.

"When was the last time you ate, Potter?” Draco demanded. “You look terrible.”

"Gee, thanks,” Harry grinned. 

"I'm serious,” Draco insisted, pushing Harry away and standing suddenly. “You are working too many cases. Take some time off next week. We'll go away. Seaside maybe?" 

"Yeah, okay," Harry said, immediately warming to the idea. Multiple days of nothing but sea air, lapping waves, and a naked Draco in his bed, was exactly what he needed. 

He watched the blond putter by the closet for a moment, putting things away, getting ready for the morning before he went to make dinner. The whole thing seeped in routine and normalcy, and it made Harry's heart swell happily. Clearly, he had just needed to come _____home_____. 

_____Everything is okay_____ , he thought. _____Everything will be fine now._____

He cleared his throat, "Draco…" 

"Mhmm?" 

"I love you." 

"I love you too, you great bumble,” Draco replied with a chuckle. “Although, we really must work on you sounding less terrified every time you say it." 

"Ugh, I'm trying,” Harry groaned, his hands over his eyes. “Words are stupid." 

"Eloquently put,” Draco teased. “You never could say what you meant." 

"Hey,” Harry said in mock offence, throwing himself from the bed and advancing on Draco. “Well. Fine. That’s true. But I am excellent with actions…" 

"What happened to it being too hot?" Draco taunted. 

Harry laughed, dragging Draco by the belt buckle toward the bed, saying, "Might as well embrace the sticky."


	5. Collapse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's all going down in this chapter. Trigger warning. There is nothing super violent or graphic, but please proceed forewarned. Its a long one, because breaking it up would be mean. But I also promise the story does not end here.

The breaks, the small ones, were enough at first. They helped Harry sleep, which was honestly half the battle. If he slept, he didn't panic as frequently when he was awake.  
  
Draco had tried so hard at first to help. He would hold onto Harry in the middle of the night, having woken up to wild thrashing or screams. He made potion after potion, trying to find the right combination of Dreamless Sleep and Calming Draught. He insisted that Harry ask for cases closer to home, and when Montgomery reluctantly agreed, Harry made Ron take on a new partner so he could stay on the difficult cases, where he was good and necessary and needed.   
  
The support was wonderful and Harry desperately wanted it to be enough.   
  
For three more months, he thought he had done a decent job of pretending things were fine. He hid in the bathroom when he had panic attacks at home, slept in the guest room after Draco had gone to sleep if he felt a bad night was coming. He stopped talking about work at home and Draco seemed to appreciate the reduction in gruesome details of crime scenes. On the outside, his friends were fooled; Hermione regularly commented on how happy she was for he and Draco, how content Harry seemed all the time.

A year sped by him; for the anniversary of their first date, Harry surprised Draco with a trip to Spain, where they had eaten their weight in spicy, sultry food, frolicked for hours on white sand beaches, and fucked like teenagers for the better part of the too-hot afternoons. That particular break from reality was incredible; Harry slept soundly for the entire week and his heart swelled at the lightness in Draco's face, which had been missing for months.  
  
Near the end of their trip, they had been walking one cool, breezy evening down the beach. Mid-laugh, Draco had stopped dead and turned to face Harry.   
  
"Harry,” he said delicately. “ _Merlin_ , I've been avoiding this question for months now, but. Harry. Are you okay?"   


Harry’s face tightened and his muscles tensed. "What?” He replied, eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?"  
  
Draco sighed, dropping his hand and shoving his hands in his pockets. "You just seem different… not as carefree or something,” he explained. “As when we first met, I mean. Is it work?”   
  
Harry shook his head.

“The nightmares then? I know you've had them a long time, but now they seem to be—"  
  
"Worse," Harry finished with a small sigh. He instinctively moved closer to Draco, wrapping him in his arms, slotting hands into the back of his loose linen trousers. He had been waiting for this conversation, yet he still didn’t have an answer. Not a good one. "I'm fine, Draco. It's just a bit stressful, this job, and I'm still learning. It's going to be okay."   
  
"Are you sure?” Draco said, rare uncertainty creeping into his tone as he echoed Harry’s embrace. “You would tell me, right? If you needed… help." Draco was speaking so quietly now that Harry almost didn't hear the last word at all.   
  
"You _are_ helping me, D,” Harry insisted. “You really don't need to worry."   
  
Draco smiled a small, tentative smile. "I'm going to anyway,” he shrugged. “I'm a worrier. Besides, I didn't mean _me_. I meant, like, real help. Professional help. We could probably both use some, actually. I'm surprised the Ministry didn't make us all do mandatory counselling after the war. It only makes sense that you…. well, you saw more than anyone, Harry.”

Draco inhaled deeply. “It's not a bad thing to say you need help."  
  
Draco said this last sentence all in a rush, as though he had been avoiding it. Harry laughed; he was rested and happy and so the entire conversation only resonated in Harry's brain as excessively adorable worry from his ever-concerned boyfriend. He kissed Draco's forehead, promised he would tell him if things got worse, and then dragged him bodily, kicking and screaming, into the surf. They finished their week gloriously, Draco shoving too many souvenirs for Hermione and Ron and their kids into his carry-on. 

* * *

  
Back in London, however, the veneer lost its shine and started to crack so quickly that Harry couldn’t pick up the pieces. It was like Spain had accelerated his descent. Like the sun and the contentment had washed away his ability to hide. Harry knew how much happier he could be, and now, he was unable to convince himself to pretend.

As the months wore on, Harry got decidedly worse. He stopped trying to sleep at all, instead spending most nights wandering the house until passing out for an hour-long nap. He also stopped coming home from work at regular hours, preferring to be busy as long as possible. He took on case after case, offered to finish other people's paperwork, and when these things weren't enough, voluntarily filed things by hand, a job no one in the Ministry ever did.

He was angry and short-tempered, especially with Draco. Their fights began a few weeks after Spain; the more violent they grew, the quieter Harry got, until eventually, he was silent for days. Draco, immediately guilty, would spend inordinate amounts of time trying to make it up to him, which was ridiculous since Harry almost always _started_ the arguments.

The thing that Harry wasn't telling anyone was that the buzz of anxiety was almost constant behind his eyes. He was hiding the darkness that pressed down on him until he couldn’t move because the air was too thick. There were still moments of panic sheer and utter panic, where his breath was stolen and his heart pounded in his throat. The problem was that Harry longed for the panic attacks these days; those were the only moments where colours returned to their normal intensity, where the muted fuzziness left his world and put things into sharp focus. The moments where his vision tunnelled and his breathing quickened suddenly felt like the only moments where he was actually _awake_.

The rest of the day—and most of the night—Harry would oscillate back and forth between utter despair over the mistakes of his past and intense fear of the future. How much longer could he fool Hermione and Ron? How much longer could he convince Draco to forgive him? How much longer would Montgomery not question his seventy hour work weeks?

* * *

Winter was where shit really hit the fan. January in London, Harry decided, was possibly the worst time and place to exist as he was; the days rolled by slowly and he didn’t know he was still alive. He was barely breathing, barely conscious most of the time. The outside seemed to be perfect pathetic fallacy. More days than not, a persistent cold drizzle bore down on them, the grey in the sky impenetrable by the weak winter sun. When Harry arrived at work, it was still pitch black. When he left, the darkness had returned. Daylight, when it did occur, was not something he saw.

It was in the midst of this terrible gloom that Ron suddenly noticed how listless Harry had become.

He dragged Harry into the break room early one morning and held him hostage. "Harry, mate,” he mumbled into his folded arms. “What's up? You seem… ill. D'you need that number of the doctor at Mungo's I go to? He's excellent. Maybe he can sort some… dunno, vitamins, or something."

Ron had shrugged, carefully avoiding Harry’s eye and holding out a scrap of paper he’d pulled from his pocket. More to shut him up than anything else, Harry took the number and left the room, allowing his brain to continue its low, pounding beat. He placed it in his wallet. He had actually decided part way through the day that he _should_ call, but when he got home and sat at the kitchen table, his feet became leaden, and movement was impossible.

Thankfully, Draco chose this moment to arrive home; comically shocked to find Harry there, he smiled as he walked past him to put the kettle on, running his hand through Harry's hair as he went. Harry tried not to wince. These casual touches—which had once been so welcome, a reminder that he was not alone—had started to grate on him and make him cringe. He was poison, affecting the air they both breathed, and he didn't want Draco to drown as well.

As he settled at the table with Harry, Draco pushed the small paper out toward the middle of the table. "What's this, Hare? Are you going to go see someone?" he asked casually.

"Maybe," Harry shrugged in the shell of his former voice without looking up.

"Do you… do you want me to call?"

Harry sighed. "Guess so."

And because he was Draco, call he did. Right at that moment. Moreover, he finagled an appointment for the very next day, despite the fact that it was Saturday and last minute and the doctors at Mungo’s were always booked for months in advance. Then, he dragged Harry, almost by force, out of bed the next morning and into the fireplace. Harry didn't even have the energy to protest the Floo, his least favourite form of travel. They arrived directly onto the professional office hearth of the oldest wizard Harry had ever seen. He had to be older than even Dumbledore had been, with angry, pointy fingers and his eyesight was clearly impossibly bad.

Harry sat in his usual fog, only occasionally nodding and making sounds of agreement as he let Draco speak for him. The ancient healer listened to his chest, shook his head, and then sat back down.

"Seasonal, I think, Mr Potter,” he mumbled quietly, scribbling something onto the pad on his desk. “Going to give you some vitamins. And perhaps a new sleeping draught? I have one I am fond of. Though it is quite strong, I think it may be just the ticket. Just have to be careful you don't use too much."

Harry remembered nodding.

"I'll only send you home with a small amount this time, so we can see if it works on those nightmares," the doctor continued, heedless to Harry’s silence. “Rest. Rest is all you need, young man. Pure exhaustion, that's what's wrong with you; and who could blame you? Working hard as you have for so many years.”   
  
Draco tried to speak, but the doctor raised a quelling hand. “I'd recommend you take a break, but I know what you Aurors are like,” he teased with a short, wheezy laugh. “No sense of self-preservation. I won't waste my breath.”

For the first few weeks, the sleeping draught helped a little bit. Harry seemed to manage slightly longer bursts of sleep before he woke up in a panic. Draco seemed overly cheerful and hopeful, but then he supposed that was a sign of how bad things had really gotten. This small amount of hope was enough for Draco to grasp and cling to for dear life. They had sex again, which in and of itself was a little miraculous.

He let Draco persuade him to go out to dinner and a movie, his favourite 'Muggle' date and something they had not done for months. Harry even laughed right along with Draco at the stupid comedy they ended up seeing and a small amount of the humour seeped just past the fog.

But the sleeping potion was only slightly stronger than the ones Draco had been making him at home. Soon, he was taking twice as much as he’d been prescribed. He ruefully smiled at himself in the mirror on the second time he doubled the dose.

 _Classic_ , he thought. _An age old tale. Now you're what, an addict, too?_

Still.

He had drunk the potion, then convinced Draco to get him more.

They managed this way until the end of February, both pretending things were perfectly fine again. Until one random Thursday evening, when Draco came home with the news that the wizard who had killed three others in the name of the Dark Lord had been granted a plea of insanity by the Wizengamot. He would live out the rest of his days in a facility for incurable cases in the North.

The same place, in fact, where Lucius Malfoy now resided.

"He isn't going to prison?" Harry had asked quietly, disbelief tempering his tone.

"Are you disappointed?” Draco shot back; Harry wasn’t surprised. This was a touchy subject for him. “He wasn't aware of what he was doing. He thought… he thought Voldemort was still _alive_ . It's good, Harry.”   
  
Harry made a derisive sound.

Draco sighed. “You caught him, and now he can't hurt anyone else. That’s your _job_."

But Harry stood up, backed out of the room as he slowly lost the ability to breath. He ran up the stairs to the bathroom, vomited, and collapsed on the floor, shaking and hyperventilating as the familiar panic set it. How could this happen? How could people just get away with evil? He dragged at his shirt, freeing his neck from the strangling weight of his collar as Draco appeared at the door, desperately unlocking it with an outstretched wand and rushing to Harry’s side.

"Harry,” he begged. “Calm. Just calm down, my love. It's going to be okay.”

He offered Harry his hands, knowing better by now than to touch him without invitation in the midst of an attack. Harry gratefully took both Draco's hands in his own and focused on his concerned face, the pace of his breath, trying to slow down his thoughts. Finally, he the beat of his heart calmed and felt the immediate exhaustion take hold, so different from the general tired he always felt now. Instead, his head rolled down, his neck no longer stable enough to hold it up. His eyelids drooped, his muscles relaxing.

He collapsed against the tub with Draco still holding his hands and didn't resist when he pulled him down until Harry's head rested in his lap. They sat this way for hours, Draco smoothing his hair, murmuring, _'hush, you are safe. You are fine,’_ almost begging for it to be true. Harry must have fallen asleep; next thing he knew, he was jolting awake, trying to escape prying hands at his throat with sweat emerging from his every pore.

He gently roused Draco from his doze, bringing him gently to bed. For a moment, he just watched Draco's expression as smoothed back into rest. The exhaustion and the fear that creased his face during the day drained away until he was once again just beautiful. Harry reached out and stroked the side of the strong, confident face he had grown to love so much. He _wanted_ to be better for Draco. He wanted to be the best he had ever been, not this empty shell.

He just wasn't sure how.

He tried laying down beside Draco and forcing himself to sleep, but he just couldn't. Giving up, he padded as lightly as possible down to the bathroom. He cleaned up his earlier mess, then went to the cabinet.

Staring down at the blue liquid inside, the solution seemed very clear to him. Even now, Harry remembered the clarity. How everything had just made _sense_ all of a sudden. For an hour, Harry sat in the bathtub and sobbed. He _should_ have been better: for himself, for Ron, for Draco. But he wasn't. He wasn't better. He was scared and alone, and all the time he spent trying to figure out why, all the time he had spent fighting against evil, it didn't seem to matter. It hadn't made any bloody difference. The bad was still free in the world, free to destroy good.

And he was just.

So.

Tired.

The last thing he remembered of that night was the feeling of utter failure. He just wanted to sleep, pretend he had answers. He was going to deal with it tomorrow. He was going to get up and try harder in the morning. He was going to get up and love Draco better. Be a better Auror. Find a way to matter again. As he pulled the cork from the bottle, that is all he was thinking; that he just needed to sleep, and that tomorrow, he would do better.

Although, as he had drifted into darkness, he realized that it was easier this way. If he just didn't have to do it anymore. It hurt less, right now. It was just easier.

He hadn't meant to drink it all.

* * *

To hear Draco tell it, it hadn't been disappearing at all; apparently, his body had not been impressed with that much potion entering his system all at once. Having never been a heavy sleeper, the recently awoken Draco had leapt out of bed to the sound of flailing and clattering. Running into the bathroom, he had found Harry, crashing in the bathtub, eyes rolling back, movements unnatural and jerky.

He had to rely on Draco's account of matters because the next thing he himself remembered was waking up in a hospital bed at St. Mungo's two days later. With Ron pacing in front of him, Hermione knitting across his bed, and Draco passed out in a corner on a very uncomfortable looking chair. When he tried to speak, he found his voice hoarse and unusable. His entire body hurt.

"Oh, Harry…" Hermione said softly, looking up at him as she heard his muffled movements. “Oh, thank God. Harry.”

"Hare!" Ron shouted.

He was immediately hushed by Hermione, who looked pointedly at Draco. But she needn't have worried. Harry immediately saw that Draco was awake. He had not moved, but he was looking at Harry heavily, darkness harshening his face even more than the dim lighting.

"Harry, we love you. Thank you for coming back. We'll talk later. Ron," Hermione said as she stood and beckoned for her husband to follow. Ron walked over and put his hand on Harry's shoulder, and then followed her out of the room.

For a moment, Draco didn't move; he just continued to look across the room at Harry with that expressionless stare, as though he was deciding his next move. Finally, he stood up, pulled at his shirt and took one step forward. He crossed the room, now looking every bit as exhausted as Harry still felt.

"You know… I had all these ideas,” Draco mumbled. “Things I was going to say if you woke up. I was going to be angry and stern. I was going to leave the room—” He stopped short, looking down at Harry with tired eyes. “Do you know they weren't sure you would? Wake up?"

He sighed and worried at his hem. “I had all these things to say and I can't remember any of them. Harry—”

There was a choke in his voice that Harry had never heard before. He didn’t try to respond. Instead, he reached his hand out toward the only person he could have woken up  _ for _ , which was apparently all Draco needed. He grabbed hold of Harry's and collapsed completely, crumbling into himself. Harry used what tiny amount of strength he had to bring Draco closer until he was lying beside Harry in the too narrow bed, pressed into the tiny space; he brought Draco right where he belonged.

"Hey," Harry had whispered with all the volume he could find. "Hey, D. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Draco had only held him tighter and refused to move for hours.

As doctors fluttered in and all around him, checking things constantly, casting spell after spell, Draco refused to move. Even when, eventually, Draco fell asleep, Harry didn't move him, held on just as tight, trying to remember why exactly it had ever seemed like a good idea to leave him behind. How could he have been so stupid?

Days went by, and two things became clear to Harry.

First, he was very, very ill. There was no denying it. He needed some serious help. It became abundantly obvious that even once the last of the potion finally cleared itself from his limbs, even once they stopped feeling so lethargic and heavy, he would be going nowhere. The doctors all around him spoke as though he was a resident now, and Harry slowly began to understand that he was going to have to stay a while.

Secondly, it was clear that he had not been fooling anyone as much as he had originally believed. Everyone regarded him with a knowing sort of sadness. They had known all along how unwell he was. It didn’t surprise him that Draco knew; he had known for months that he wasn't fooling Draco. But he had really deluded himself into believing that he had been hiding his descent from his friends.

When they confronted him, Ron was already biting back tears. It was rare to see him show so much emotion that openly, and the image twisted in Harry’s gut.

“I just don’t understand,” Ron grumbled. “Why didn't you say anything? I didn't know things had gotten so bad. We tell each other  _ everything _ .”

Hermione just kept having to leave the room crying whenever anyone came to take another test or ask him questions. Neville showed up on his second day in the hospital and never left. He was quiet and present, just as he always had been, steadily bringing things they needed, like a change of clothes when Draco wouldn't leave, food and coffee for everyone who'd been hanging around for hours. Even in this silent caregiving mode, Harry felt his fury and concern rolling off of him like a thick blanket. Even Neville had known how bad things were.

The news finally arrived: six weeks in the intensive program at the St. Mungo's Clinic. The recommended course of treatment for ‘cases like his.' Those words were like a sucker punch; Harry was sure they were mistaken. Cases like his could not possibly exist. Surely, no one else endured feeling this way every day?    
  
He didn’t argue with the doctors. He signed his life away, was moved immediately. He liked the small, pixie-faced witch who became his counsellor; at first, the fear was his motivation, so Harry participated. He fully tried. He knew he had to, and he wanted so badly to go home. He wanted to get off the potions, forever. He wanted to go back to his job, back to Draco, back to his life.


	6. Return

When he got home, he did better for the summer. He saw his therapist three times a week, stopped the sleeping draughts. He was trying very hard to see all the lights at the ends of all the tunnels, and Draco was back to his former self. For those warm, sunny months, life seemed brighter. Lighter. Almost perfect.

There was just one sticking point. There was always _one_ sticking point. Draco, in his attempt to understand, had decided that the thing to blame for all the pain was not Harry, but the Auror department.

And so, while things were going well most of the time, they argued quite frequently. And as they continued to fight, Harry felt himself pulling back again. He was back in the field on a trial basis, and Draco did not like it. The fight that stuck in Harry's mind, the one that was the beginning of the end, had happened in early September.

Harry was back from a case, an easy one, but one that had taken him away from the house for 48 hours. He had come home excited to be there, a new feeling that he had missed. But Draco had been in a foul mood, a bad day, combined with bad weather making him grumpy and despondent. All Harry managed to say was 'hi' before Draco pounced.

"Hi?" he spat, making a huffing noise. "I guess that's what we say when we see strangers, yes."

"Strangers?” Harry replied, freezing in the entryway and glaring at Draco. “D. Come on. I'm sorry. I'm home _now_ ; we should go out. What are you up tonight?"

Draco, however, was not going to take the bait. "So you want to what? Go on a _date_ ,” he hissed. “Like everything is fine?"

This gave Harry pause. "Is everything _not_ fine?”

Draco hesitated, returning Harry’s glare until Harry sighed.

“Draco, please,” he begged. “Remember, we said we were going, to be honest. I am actually trying right now. Tell me."

"Fine,” Draco groaned. “I'm not actually angry. I'm sorry. It's just… Harry, I hardly see you. It's like we don't exist as a couple anymore."

He knew Draco was trying and he really wanted to let it go, to go out for dinner and forget the slight bump in the road. But hearing Draco say they weren’t okay set him off. For the first time in months, he felt like they _were_ actually existing as a couple again. He thought they were both being themselves. He was doing his best. To hear Draco so directly contradict this belief annoyed him. And he snapped.

"What, because we don't go out as often?” Harry shouted. “Is that the issue? You don't get to be _seen_ with me anymore? Draco, I don't know what you want me to do. I'm working. It's my job!"

Picking up on the sudden change in the tone of the conversation, Draco was immediately incensed as well.

"Oh yes, your _job._ How dare I forget the all-important Auror’s absolutely _essential_ schedule,” Draco returned. “How dare I expect you to have changed your priorities. Of _course,_ the only important bloody thing in your life is the frigging job, which still manages to keeps you from the house for days at a time. The job that drags just a little bit more of you away each week. The job that erases any progress we've made each time you get dragged back into it. "

“ _Excuse_ me?” Harry fumed. "I’m not 'erasing progress'. I'm doing fine! What would you have me do, huh? Quit? Stay here and cook and clean for you like a fucking house elf?"

Draco growled. "Harry, you _know_ that's not what I mean,” he seethed. You know what I want you to do. Transfer, take on a supervisory role, here, at least until you work through some of this shit. At least until you are back to… never mind.”

“No, what?” Harry pushed. “Back to what? Normal? No offence, Draco, but you don’t even know what that would mean for me. Truth is, you've only ever seen me fucked, Draco. At least as adults. If I recall, you weren’t a big fan of who I was before that.” “That’s not the point, Harry—” “Admit it, Draco,” Harry interrupted. “You’re scared that this is as good as it gets. You know what? Maybe it is. I will not be chained to a desk.”

"Not forever," Draco responded quietly. "Just for now.” “Why are you so stuck on this?” “Because,” Draco said fiercely. “Because at least if you were tethered, I'd know where you were. I know you were still alive. Still… safe." Draco dropped his eyes then, clearly close to crying.

For months, he had been threatening to tell Montgomery of the details of his time off, about of the bathtub, about Mungo's. The conversation had happened so many times that it had lost all meaning. But this? This obvious pain? This hurt? It clawed at the dark thing inside of Harry and made him weep without knowing why.

The conversation over, Draco retreated into their bedroom and refused to come back out.

* * *

 The next day, Harry went to Montgomery and admitted that he wasn't ready to be back in the field. He took the desk job. He just wanted Draco to be okay, wanted him to be happy. He deserved to be happy, and it was not fair for Harry to take that from him.

Auror.

It's what he had always wanted; but now, as he spent long hours bored out of his mind, he couldn't really remember why. He hadn't been interested in other things in school, but he had been seventeen, and there had been no war yet. Had he underestimated how much of a toll that year had taken? Perhaps he should not have followed Ron into training simply because it had always been their plan. Maybe he should have taken some time to re-evaluate. Perhaps he wasn’t actually meant to be here at all.

September rolled by with Harry sat behind a desk. Suddenly, he and Draco had been together for two years. A _hard_ two years, which felt like a decade. No Spain this time, just a slightly tense dinner out together in Muggle London, followed by Harry claiming exhaustion and going straight to sleep.

Draco got progressively more sullen and cantankerous; the reality that it was because Harry was home all the time was not lost on him. Harry wanted to be angry in return, wanted to be so angry that he smashed things. The fact that he was there was Draco's fault, for _Merlin's_ sake.

Instead, he started slipping potions again. Just sometimes, and just sips. It just seemed easier to face everything, if he was just slightly less present. He loved the idea of Draco being there all the time, and he was annoyed that Draco clearly did not feel the same way.

One day, in late October, Draco came into the living room, where Harry was admittedly not as present as he should have been. He had lost count of how many small sips he had taken that day, and he turned his body only vaguely at Draco entering.

"Harry," Draco said cautiously.

"Hey, babe,” he replied. “What's shakin'?"

"Harry? How much did you take?" Draco demanded, sounding very tired all of a sudden.

"What? I don't know what—”

"Harry, you don't call me 'babe',” Draco interrupted. “It's clear you've been taking that potion again. Please sit up. I need… we need to talk. Well. No. Actually, _I_ need to talk."

Suddenly, things were very much present. Things were technicolour, vivid, and probably always would be. The words ‘need to talk’ somehow replaced the potion fog. Harry sat up. He moved very slowly, as though talking to a suspect. Something had shifted in the room, something painful and honest. He did not like Draco's tone.

Draco sat down across from him, carefully perched on the edge of the sofa. He took a deep breath.

"Do you know what I need from you Harry?" he asked. Harry opened his mouth to reply, but Draco held up a hand. " _Nothing_ ,” Draco continued.

“Sure, there are things I _want_ from you,” he elaborated. “Love. Respect. Comfort once in a while… but I don't _need_ anything from you. Before you, I was an independent human being. I was actually pretty happy, frankly. I didn't need anyone. I didn't need anything.”

“I know that,” Harry murmured. “Then you appeared, and we ended up in this… this thing.” Draco looked at his hands. “It was great for a bit there. I won’t deny that.” “Draco—”

“Then this morning,” Draco pressed on, “I realised the truth. That after you, I will go back to being that person. That other person. Or at least, I think I can. Can you honestly say the same thing?”

Draco paused here, but Harry didn't think it was for impact. It was like Draco needed a moment to recommit to his speech, collect himself. He gave a small nod.

"I just… don't know if I can do it anymore,” he said sadly. “The weight of you needing me, it's just pressing me down too much. I love you, and I don't know if I ever won't, but I just can't be the only thing keeping you alive anymore. I can't be the only reason you're still here. If I don't leave now, I think it's going to kill both of us."

He stood up again, even though Harry was sure he'd only been sitting a moment. He watched him head back toward the door.

"Neville's on his way over,” Draco said, pausing at the hall closet to pull out two large cases. “He's going to stay here with you a while. I don't trust leaving you alone, but I can't be the one to stay anymore."

Hours later—after Draco had left with the pre-packed bags, after Neville had appeared, flitting silently in the kitchen and not forcing him to talk—Harry still had not moved. He wasn't sure he had closed his mouth, in fact, from the shock of Draco's words. He kept waiting; for Draco to come back in, saying he was done thinking, that he hadn't meant it. Waiting for someone to jump out and explain it was a joke.

But, of course, that hadn't happened.

They spent one final hour together over lunch, finalizing things and separating their belongings. And apparently, that was all he got; one hour to learn to live without. Draco Malfoy walked back out of his life and Harry did not recover well.

* * *

 "Harry. Oh Harry James. It was _you_?" Ginny held her head in her hands, their mugs both empty, their chairs pushed out for comfort. They had been at this cafe for hours.

"What?” Harry asked. “What do you mean?"

"Harry. Darling boy,” she replied, reaching down to take her hands in his. “You know I love you. I’ve been here for you, through it all. Through the coming out, through the recovery.”

“I know?” Harry said, confused.

“But Harry,” Ginny went on. “I have been patiently waiting here for you to finish this story because I wanted to know. I wanted to understand what went wrong. What he’d done to you.”

“I meant to tell you months ago.”

“That’s not my point. Do you even know how angry we’ve all been?” Ginny snapped. “Angry at _Draco_. But Harry, it was you. _You_ hurt. _You_ destroyed. _You_ broke. It was _you_. And why? For the sake of _what_? A job you don't like?"

"Ginny, it's not that simple—”

"Don't. Don't you dare do that. We only get so many great loves in our lives. You know that. Draco was—no, is, apparently— _so_ good. Beyond all our wildest imaginings, he was the best thing to happen to almost all of us.”

Harry looked down at his empty cup. She was right, of course, but it didn't really make much of a difference, not now.

"So," she prompted. "What are you going to do?"

"Do?"

"To fix it."

"Ginny, don't be ridiculous.” He rolled his eyes. “I can't _fix_ this. The 'this' is me; it's not just my fault, it's who I _am_. That was his issue."

Ginny snorted meanly. "Well, that is truly the stupidest thing I have ever heard you say. I have known you how long? Don't you think that if this depression, this anxiety, were actually 'you', we'd have told you by now?”

She shook her head and poked him in the chest. “This isn't _you_ , Harry. You haven't been you in ages. Draco tried to show you that. I think we'd have been in that hospital room a year and a half sooner without him. And how did you repay him?”

"Fine, but even if you are right, I don't know what else to do. I tried."

"No, you didn't,” Ginny cried. She took a deep breath and put both hands on his shoulders. “Okay, now wait, that probably isn't fair. I think maybe I meant to say that you didn't try _long enough_. So, you try again. I'll help."

"Ginny, you… I don't want you thinking I can do this for Draco."

"No, I would never suggest that. I don't want you doing this for anyone. I just want you to live again. Don't you want that?"

Harry sighed a deep sigh. And nodded.

“So, how can I help.” “Honestly?” he asked softly. "Ginny, I think I need to go back to the hospital.”


	7. Part Two: Interim

**PART TWO**

* * *

**Interim**

He wandered into work as quietly as was possible, mostly because he was late. Again. It was probably the fourth time this week. It wasn't something he was proud of, because he was normally extremely punctual. Up until this month, it probably would have been one of his qualifiers when people described him. 

But this month, it had gotten much more difficult to get up, let alone get his life together enough to get to work. His bed was new, too firm, too cold, too… empty. The flat he was renting had been painted too recently for his liking, and he could smell the faint reek of paint in every room. It gave him headaches. The flat was also in a too quiet part of town and he woke up to the slightest sound, and didn't go to bed when he should have.

All these little things were adding up, until he was suddenly late.

A lot.

He sighed and settled at his desk, trying his best to look like he'd been sitting there for the forty-five minutes he should have been. He rubbed at his temples, and begged his eyes to refocus on the files he needed to get organized and off his desk, considering that perhaps he needed a new hobby to at least offset all the free time he had suddenly acquired. 

He was so lost in thought that he didn't hear the department door open ten minutes later, which means he, quite typically actually, jumped when a voice softly spoke his name.

"Merlin's beard, Ron. Knock much?"

"Er, sorry,” Ron apologised with a shrug. 

Draco sighed. "I’d appreciate it if you could get straight to the point, Weasley. I’m quite far behind. I don't really have time this morning to be shouted at and blamed for everything wrong with the world. I can pencil you in for a meeting this afternoon if you would like."

He knew he was being unnecessarily harsh, but these visits had stopped being fun before they had even started. Ron would show up with some new theory about why he was the worst person in the world, berate him for fifteen minutes while Draco sat in ashamed silence, and then storm off in a huff once he’d worn himself out. He was quite used to the routine, but he had no extra patience today to put up with it. 

"Calm down, Draco. I just…” Ron hesitated, which made Draco nervous. He usually only appeared in Draco’s office once he had a well-prepared speech and a bucketful of ire. “Ginny sent me, actually,” Ron muttered eventually. “We wanted to check… wanted to ask you if you are, um, okay?"

Draco's head snapped up and he met Ron's eye. The change in tone and conversation from the past few months was confusing and unprompted and well-rehearsed caution snapped back into his movements. His shoulders involuntarily tensed, his eyes narrowed and he cautiously cleared his throat once.

"If I am  _ okay _ , _ ”  _ Draco repeated. “What happened to yelling at me and asking me what I did to Harry?"

"It seems," Ron said, taking a deep breath. "It seems that we didn't have the whole story. Ginny talked to Harry, he told her the whole thing. We owe you an apology. And we wanted to make sure that you are okay."

Draco laughed a short, humourless laugh, "Okay. Yeah, sure. I'm ' _Oh_ -kay.'"  
  
They stared at each other across Draco’s desk for a moment, until, quite suddenly, Ron collapsed onto one of Draco’s chairs.

"Draco, I didn't see. I—" Ron stopped short in a deep breath that would have been a sob on anyone but the ever-strong Weasley Auror. "I didn't realize that—”

Understanding without even realising that he did; his voice softened without him meaning it too when he replied. 

“Ron,” he soothed. “No one did. He didn’t want anyone to see. He’s very good at hiding things. He hid how bad it was from  _ me  _ and I was living with him. It’s no one’s fault.”    


"Still, he's my best mate."

Draco nodded; he understood the pain Ron was in. He had no solution. It was an impossible problem, one with no solution. It was no one’s fault that Harry had fallen as far as he did, but it didn’t make the feelings of guilt, of responsibility, disappear. He decided not to try and offer comfort he couldn’t provide and fell silent. 

He waited while Ron collected himself. He waited until words fell from his mouth of their own volition. 

"Ron, how is he?” he blurted. “Is Neville still with him? I was… I  _ am  _ worried. I know I don't have a right to be, but—”

“Draco, mate.” Ron's brow furrowed slightly. "He's back in hospital. The Wiltshire branch, long-term facility. Gin took him last week. I'm sorry, I thought you'd heard."

Draco stared straight ahead, sort of unable to make his eyes focus on anything at all, and shook his head.

“Draco,” Ron said haltingly. “I mean. I realise it’s none of my business or whatever, but. But… don’t you think it’s a bit early to be moving on?” 

"Moving—Weasley, what on earth are you talking about?" Draco said with a scowl. 

"Ginny said that when Harry collapsed last week, they had just run into you and some new bloke at the shops."

Draco's head collapsed onto the desk. "Ed."

"Er, right. Well, just be a bit more discreet, maybe?" Ron replied. Draco heard him stand as though he was leaving. He leapt up and held out a hand.

"Ron,” he all but shouted. “Ed is my cousin. He was staying with me for a bit, right after. He's from France.  _ Édouard _ ."

"But Gin said you were all chummy?"

"Yes, he's my best friend,” Draco sighed. “Since we were children. One of the few people I've ever given that title. He's… he's almost all I have left."  
  
Ron did not look convinced. “Oh. Okay, well…” 

“Harry has met him,” Draco insisted. “Though, I'm not really surprised he doesn’t remember.” 

"I guess that’s fair,” Ron conceded. 

"Do you truly believe that I will be able to just move on?” Draco demanded. “You really don't know me, do you?"

"No, I guess not,” Ron admitted. He walked back across the room and patted Draco on the shoulder. “Sorry."

"It's not your fault, Weasley. It is so, so not your fault.” 

Everything inside of him was broken; he was exhausted and confused, and to top it all off, Ron was leaving. 

“Wait. Take care of him for me."

Ron nodded, but despite the immediate agreement, Draco couldn't stop himself from whispering, "please,” at his retreating form.

* * *

 

Harry hated therapy. He really,  _ really  _ hated therapy. Mungo's Wiltshire Cove tried so hard  _ not  _ to look like an inpatient centre or a hospital that it only really succeeded in looking even more clinical _.  _ The people around him were all just as sick as he was, and the pale yellow walls, the Calming Seashore prints, the soft lighting—none of it could hide the fact that the place was built to house people who were very close to no longer being alive.

When Ginny dropped him off in London, there had been a battery of tests: written, verbal, blood. You name it, they had done it. An hour later, his new caseworker—a woman he did not like as much as the old one—had announced that he was to be transferred. When she left him alone for the five minutes it took for her to get his paperwork sorted out, she foolishly left his file on the desk right beside him. So of course, Harry had read it. He instantly regretted that choice.

_ Depression. Anxiety. Possible complications of PTSD. Potion dependency with history of overdose. Suicide risk. Recommend for intensive inpatient. _

It sort of knocked the wind out of him, seeing the words written down like that. Obviously, he had had some inclination; he lived in the world, he heard things. It's not like he wasn't aware that he was  _ likely  _ depressed, but the word seemed so simple. So clinical. Written down below his name like it was no a common issue. No biggie. Like it wasn't slowly killing him. And  _ dependency _ ? Was he 'dependent'?

Maybe.

When the surly worker came back, he was too shell-shocked to even begin to argue with her; he didn't fight the decision that he stay for at least three months in Wiltshire. Detox had been bad, not to mention the fact that he was now expected to just sleep on his own. The nightmares came back in full force for the first two weeks. No one seemed to be able to do anything about them, and the nurses would all just shrug and tell him ‘we don’t have anything you’re allowed to take’, and then offer him chamomile tea with valerian. 

The days would pass him by in a frightening swirl of activities designed to torture him. Or, as the brochures implied, to  _ teach coping skills applicable to the patient’s daily life.  _

More than the sanitized activities, the strict schedule and the bad food, Harry hated group the most. Group was the worst hour of his day. He was expected to sit there, and listen, and then  _ share _ . He was supposed to tell his story as though it was normal to have willingly walked into his own death to defeat the greatest evil in wizarding history, only to wake up and realise that some of his closest friends had died anyway. As though all of what he had been through was standard, depression-causing stuff. 

As bad as group was most days, he hated Wednesdays the most. On Wednesday, he had his hour with his clinical therapist right  _ after  _ frigging group. Which meant that every Wednesday, he was still angry when poor Collette tried to pry the pain out of his soul. 

He, generally, loved Collette. She was young, possibly too young to be doing what she was doing. But she was also endlessly calm, completely lovely, gentle and understanding. He supposed these things were necessary for her job, but he appreciated them nonetheless. 

Most of the time. 

Right now, as he sat at the window with his arms crossed, fuming about Roy the Racist's daily explosion of hate, he was a little done with her positivity. And she was a bit done with him, apparently.

"Harry," she sighed. "Look, I know it's Wednesday, but you promised me yesterday that we would pick up where we left off. I’m moving on from your group rant now. How did the meditation go?"

Harry just looked at her.

"Okay, so no meditation,” she replied, with the small grin she favoured when she was trying not to laugh at him. “Well, fine, but we need to figure out some sort of coping mechanism for your anxiety, Harry. I can't sign off on you leaving until we get a handle on the panic."   


"I know, but sitting in silence doesn't really work to calm me down. I need to move."

"Well, we can work with that. What's your favourite band?"

"What?"

She rolled her eyes at him, actually making him feel better that he had broken a little bit past her therapist boundary. "Music, Harry. What do you like?"

"Um…"

"Merlin,  _ Hogwarts  _ wizards,” she sighed, her head falling into her hands. “None of you ever seem to listen to music. I can't figure it out. It's like you have to make a solemn vow to forgo all human pleasures when you become a wizard. I'm so glad I went abroad. Okay, homework.”  Harry groaned.  “Oh hush,” she chastised. “In the lounge, there’s an old record player. Listen to some. Figure out what you like music. I'll work on getting you some sort of personal playing device… Magic, of course, so you don't screw with the electronics. Have you ever tried running?"   


"Uh, no."

She made a note, waving dismissively. "Try that too. Any progress on the job plans?"   


He hesitated. He hadn’t articulated this out loud yet and was suddenly very self-conscious of this fact. "Well, I have an idea. But it's sort of stupid."

"Starting points, Harry. That's all we are trying to find here. You  _ are  _ the one who decided you didn't want to go back to being an Auror."

"Hey, you agreed," Harry said, cracking a small smile. Collette was right, he had been the one who decided. The job was not working. He hated it, and it just stressed him out. In the back of his mind, a tiny voice muttered  _ Draco will be happy _ , but he hushed it internally. This was not now, nor ever, going to be about Draco.

"Exactly, so let's hear it."

"Dumbledore's Army."

"...That club you ran at school?” she remembered with a furrowed brow. “What about it?"

"It's my idea,” he sighed, feeling the nerves of letting his internal thought baby crawl into the open light of day, ready to be scrutinised and questioned. “I want to… teach. But, well… not really. I was thinking, like, a club? I just keep thinking about that year. Everything around us was… well, you know. But I was still happy. It was so  _ satisfying _ , teaching them to fight.” He hesitated but Collette was smiling, gesturing for him to continue. He took a deep breath. “I was thinking I could make it a club like Muggle karate? So there can be classes, but also with a duelling club component? Or something. It's probably stupid… I don't know who would pay for it, but—”

"Harry, that sounds awesome." He shot her a sceptical look but she laughed. “No, seriously. It does.” 

"Collette, no offence, but you aren't exactly a neutral third party. Your goal is to have me out of your office. I could say I wanted to wrangle alligators in the Sahara and you'd say it was a good idea."

She laughed again. "Well, we can keep desert alligators as a backup.” 

He scoffed at her again, though truthfully, the tiny spark of light that had wriggled its way into the dark recesses of his brain.

“I think it's a cool idea. You don't need the money, not right away—you've said so yourself, work isn't absolutely necessary for the moment. You can afford a little risk. But seriously, that sounds fun; I'd go. There aren't enough wizard-only activities, you know."

Harry looked at her, searching for traces of mocking or of therapist truth-stretching, but he didn’t find either. The random idea for a centre had been floating around his head for a few years now, but it had always seemed silly and childish, just one in a string of many unattainable plans.

"Keep thinking about it. We'll leave off here today. I'm tired of staring at your grumpy face," she said. But she was mostly joking, he thought. His grumpy face had slowly given away to slight curiosity, a new feeling that he had been missing for a while.


	8. Quiet

That night, sleepless as usual, he remembered Collette's words and went down to the lounge. He never went to the lounge willingly, so the large, wingback chair he sat in was new to him. He immediately loved it. He was noticing more and more of these small moments of comfort. The noticing was nice. Like waking up after a long sleep. He catalogued this moment for later use, thinking that when he managed to go home, he would get a big, soft chair like this, with the back high enough to cradle his tired head, the support he wasn't aware he had needed.

The record player was on a rolling cart and after a moment, he pulled it closer to himself. He wasn't prepared for the fact that he didn't know how to use the strange device. That didn't happen often to him, frankly. But Petunia and Vernon had not exactly been Music People, and even when they did put on a couple of songs, it was from the battered old radio that Vernon kept for emergencies. 

Harry looked at every part of the player, pulled out a record but was baffled about what to do after that. He understood that you were probably supposed to put the record on the round plate, with the little hole sitting above the pointy bit in the middle, but how you got it to play was beyond him. He gave up, frustrated, and sighed loudly as he leaned back again.

Which is when he realized he was not alone in the room.

"What’s your demon tonight?" asked a tired voice from the sofa whose back was to him.

Suddenly, the voice sat up, and Harry recognized Rabia, an older woman who, he gathered, had been here quite some time. Harry liked her, generally, as much as he had worked out how to like anyone in this place, where only the terrible things were talked about.

"Hi Rabia, sorry to disturb."

"You didn't. I should be getting to bed anyway. Can I help?"

"Just…"

"You can't sleep. Yeah, I know. But, can I help with something else?"

"Maybe? Collette wants me to listen to music, but I can't work out how." Harry grinned at her sheepishly. He anticipated the motherly chuckle before it came but instantly liked Rabia a little more when she also smiled and stood up.

"Sure, make a girl feel old as Medusa, why don't you. Here, I'll show you. Sonny and Cher? Oh Harry, no. Do not start with Sonny and Cher."

Harry smiled again. "Sorry, Rabia, I just don't actually know what I'm doing. I've never really… I'm not up on music, Muggle or Magical. What should I start with?"

Rabia stood back a step and eyed him appraisingly for a moment.

"Hmm, that's tougher than you might think.” She watched him for a moment until he was a little uncomfortable. His hand tapped at his knee, his foot jiggling on the floor. “Let's see,” she said suddenly, “From what I’ve noticed, you never slow down, moving all the time—you, my friend, are not an opera man. You've always been famous, but I think perhaps you don't love that. So nothing flashy. Your weapon of choice?"

"Sorry?"

"What were you using before you came here?"

"Oh,” he huffed, the directness of that question throwing him off guard even after all this time. “Um, sleeping potions?"

"Okay, so the sleeping thing makes sense. Okay,” she declared, rummaging in the box of records at her feet, pulling one out and slotting it on the machine. Rabia handed him the sleeve of an album distractedly as she put the needle on the player. 

" _ Rumours _ ?" Harry said, sceptical as she put the record down, and showed him how to put the needle on.

"Just try it. It's a starting place. Here; Roy the Racist rigged it to have headphones. It's helpful when he decides to listen to metal at full volume during quiet hours." She paused for a moment as he held the headphones and the sleeve in his hands; he knew he looked vulnerable, a little lost even. He didn’t try to hide it. She cleared her throat. "He's not really so bad, you know. Once you get to know him a bit. He's… working on the bad stuff, same as anyone. When you're ready, Harry, I can introduce you to everyone properly."

"When I'm… Rabia, have I been…” he paused, defeated. “I’m sorry.” 

"It's not just you, darling boy. Everyone is a bit standoffish initially. It's hard, at first."

"I've been here a month."

"That's a second, in terms of this place. The first two weeks, I doubt you even noticed the colour of the walls. Takes a bit before they get you off the potions, get you to notice things, really. You on Muggle meds?"

He nodded; he was if he was honest, unsure about the medication. But he was doing everything they told him to for now. He could decide for himself later.

"Yeah, so it just takes a bit of time. That's what I mean, when you're ready.” She patted him on the head like a cat and for some reason, he didn’t hate it. “Okay, I'm going to sleep. Just… listen. It's good for the soul."

"Thanks, Rabia. Thank you."

She nodded and wandered down the hall. Harry put the headphones on and started the album over. He listened to the whole album, possibly too loudly, but he liked how the music was drowning out his own thoughts; by the time he was finished, it was somewhere around three that morning and he couldn't be bothered to get up. He curled deeper into the chair, reset the needle, and fell asleep where he sat.

For a week, he sat in the chair every night. He wasn't sure how he felt about Fleetwood Mac, with its springy guitar and happiness; similarly, he did not like Chuck Berry all that much. The album collection on the cart was old and eclectic, likely from years of donations. Without Rabia's direction, he just started picking up random albums and putting them on the player. Each night, he fell asleep to the second playing of some random album. Queen, Neil Young, New Order, the Smiths. These he liked. There was pain and isolation in them for some reason, but behind that, he found soothing continuation. 

He started to immediately realize whether he was going to like something. He couldn't work out if his tastes had a genre, but he definitely knew what he liked and what he didn't like. It felt like the music was waking up a long-forgotten sense of himself. He was allowed to say no in this task. If he really didn't like something, like when he immediately turned off "The Greatest Hits of Bobby Vee", he didn't have to keep listening to it.

More importantly, however, he was sleeping again. Most importantly, in fact, he was sleeping again  _ potionless _ . It had been almost three years since that had been true. And he was sleeping without nightmares. He was sure that the Muggle meds were part of that, but he also realized that when he fell asleep with a record playing, it drowned out the panic. His dreams turned into song lyrics, and his unconscious played through his favourites over and over again instead. He woke feeling rested despite the chair, and he managed to look around in the morning, and notice things he hadn't noticed until now.

When, the following Wednesday, he sat down in Collette's office, relaxed and almost smiling, she seemed utterly surprised.

"Well, something has changed."

"I actually did my homework," he laughed. "Music."

"It's helping."

"I keep sleeping. Apparently, sleep is an important part of not going completely insane.  Plus… okay, this is going to sound stupid. But I can choose what I listen to. It makes a nice change."

"Harry, we always have choices. You, too. I know that wasn't always true, but man, if you can realise that. Really realise it? Own it and hold onto it, before you know it, you aren't going to be able to recognise yourself. But business first. Meds?"

"Still feel a bit cloudy, but haven't had a panic attack all week. And… well, I mean, I feel less of the pain. My eyes don't hurt anymore. I noticed that this morning."

"Okay, good. We'll drop the dose a bit more, see if we can get rid of that fog."

"Do I have to be on them forever?"

"Harry, we've been over this. It's not an exact science. There's a chance that once we get the dose right, you won't even notice them. But we'll see… that is a discussion for further down the line. Are you still not sharing in group?"

Harry looked away, his foul mood creeping back in. "I'm not ready."

"Fine. Take your time. It's okay. Rabia mentioned that you seemed less… burdened."

"She talked to you about me?"

"Just briefly. She takes an interest in people. She's almost a permanent resident, for reasons she will share if she trusts you. She worries."

Harry smiled slightly. He felt happy knowing that someone was worried about him in a good way. In a different way.

"So," continued Collette. "Did you find a favourite? You don't have to tell me, but… it might help. I can get you more music, too."

Harry looked at her for a second before replying. He suddenly felt like there might be room for judgement in this topic. He didn't know why, but the conversation suddenly felt rawer than the ones surrounding his trauma and his time at war. Which was ridiculous. Yet. Emotions around music were new to him and he wasn't sure he was ready to share.

"Erm, well… I like the 70s stuff the most. The 50s are too… gushy. And the 80s were just weird."

"Agreed."

"My favourite, though," Harry took a deep breath. "The Velvet Underground. Some Kinda Love… Pale Blue Eyes… Waiting for the Man. Can't choose. But yeah, them. Oh, and Neil Young. One of These Days."

"All good choices. I'm going to bring you some newer stuff, too though. It seems like you may be starting to see my point. There is so much you missed, you were so desperately trying to just stay alive. I think you missed the part where you learn how to live."

"Merlin, Collette," Harry said, looking away again. "I'm not sure how it is that you manage to sum up everything I am trying to think all at once. I mean, seriously. You should write a book."

She simply smiled at him, wrote a few notes, and sent him out into the sunshine.

* * *

 

_ "Then, I turned around and walked to my room and closed my door and put my head under my pillow and let the quiet put things where they are supposed to be." _

-Stephen Chbosky, Perks of Being a Wallflower


	9. Restart

Harry graduated in a hilarious, prison movie style graduation ceremony, wherein Rabia made a speech, and Roy the slightly-less-Racist gave him the Velvet Underground discography on an actual CD (bringing him at least part way into the new century).

He felt bereft. He wasn't ready, he argued. He wanted to stay here, keep learning, keep working out what to fix. But Collette would hear none of it.

"Harry," she said firmly the third time he brought it up. "You need to go back out. You need to be tested. We've finally got your meds sorted, and it's been four months. You need to go and see if you can do it even when the world knocks you down. I am still going to be there, but it's time. You are ready. Next month, we'll start working on your centre. You've already given notice with the Ministry. The new house is all set up. Mr Potter, it's just… time.”

She was right. He felt it in the very depths of his soul, he was ready. But he was also terrified. He would never, he knew, fully shake off the scary bits. They were just a part of him. But he knew how to deal, instead of sinking. He had routine and support and a plan. He needed to start over.

The first step was leaving London. He didn't want to be near the past, and that included the old house, the Ministry. Draco. It hurt, saying goodbye, but Hermione and Ginny had already packed up most of the house by the time he got there so the move was actually fairly quick. The new flat was in Mortecue. It was small and a bit dark, but the house faced the sea on the top of a hill and the view made up for the damp interior.

He had never lived in a wizarding community; it was a little bit shocking. It was strange to see people Apparate out on the street, or watch children play with magical toys. The way he had to use wizarding money more often than Muggle money. It was all a nice change of pace, freeing somehow. It helped that at its core, Mortecue was a sleepy little hamlet. The people there quickly stopped caring that he was Harry Potter, especially when he was as boring as he was, buying pints of milk and ordering chips at the deli counter. Reading one book a week, and occasionally entertaining very small groups of red-headed strangers. They mostly ignored him after the first month, even if the rumours about his time in treatment took a bit longer to fade.

* * *

 

For the first month, he filled his days with silly minutia. He repainted the flat, bought all new furniture, and reconfigured the garden he suddenly decided he cared about. He scoped out new haunts in the village and surrounding area and spent some of the early spring warmth lounging on the pebbly beach, just listening to the waves. It was different, hearing things, smelling things, _noticing_ things. He revelled in it some more until Ron said one sunny day, "Mate. It's getting a bit weird, er, the mentioning every sense."

Harry had laughed, and Ron seemed relieved. He realised with a start that six months ago, he likely would have snapped at Ron for a comment like that, and then gone into a sullen retreat for days.

"Ron, mate. I have been a supremely shit friend.”

"Ya, well, you can repay me with a free month or two of these classes I keep hearing about."

Harry laughed. "What could I possibly teach you?"

"Nothing, I am bloody brilliant.” Ron shrugged. “Think it’s going to be fun though."

He’d agreed easily enough. It was the last he could do.

Harry decided after three weeks of being in his new home that if he was going to keep telling people about Dumbledore's Army, he was going to have to actually start looking for a space. It wasn't until he started that he realised how ridiculously difficult this whole thing was going to be.

"The issue, I think, is that I ideally need a loft… high ceilings, no room divisions, you know. But Mortecue, even the wider township, it's so small. There isn't much available."

"Well," said Ron. "'Hermione and I were talking about that, actually. We think you should maybe think about working back in London. Just _working_ there, mind.” He held up a hand to Harry’s protests before he’d even spoken. “You can go completely across the city. Away from the Ministry. Camden maybe? Or the docks? I don’t know... just… we were thinking you might get more people coming out if it was in the city. And it's not difficult to connect to the Floo, or use an Apparition point or whatever. Just something to think about."

Harry nodded noncommittally, but he _did_ keep thinking about it, until suddenly he was sitting with Collette that week in his flat.

"I just don't think I can be in London,” he sighed. “London is the bad stuff, London is where everything went to shit."

"No, Harry. That's not true. London is where—if you'll excuse me— _you_ went to shit. London had very little to do with it. You would have eventually collapsed no matter where you were because you had dealt with exactly none of your issues.”

“But what if all it takes for things to get bad again is—”  
  
“No,” she interjected harshly. “Stop. I will not let you ignore all the hard work you have done by blaming a place for your downfall. Besides, they aren't suggesting you hold meetings in the basement of the Ministry. We can find a completely neutral place, a place where none of the memories lie. I will remind you, in case I haven't gotten high and mighty enough already, that Mortecue isn't actually neutral, all things considered.”   
  
“Yeah, no, I know,” Harry grumbled.

“And you seem to like it here,” she pressed.

"I do. So why can't I work here?" He knew he sounded petulant, and Collette was not going to let him get away with that for long.

"So, the Docks, I think," she said, using her signature move of completely ignoring him and getting her way anyway. "They seem promising, all those old grain elevators and everything.”

"Well, okay, I'll look. But there is another problem."

"What?"

"I've realised that I have absolutely no idea how to run a business."

"Ah, I see. Well, it just so happens that I anticipated this. So, here." She pulled a bunch of pages from her bag and shoved them at him. Information pamphlets on night school courses, day school short-term classes. “You can learn. This was not going to be without obstacles, Harry."

Harry looked at the papers, and back at Collette, before muttering, "So, you actually think I can do this?"

"What? You're kidding, right? You are _Harry Potter_ . You do things. It's your… thing. You do things you shouldn’t be able to do. I know one hundred percent that you can do this. You just have to decide if it’s what you _want_ to do.”

"Yes," he said, pausing for a moment before he continued. "Yes, I think it is."

"Cool. I can't wait for my first duel!"

And so, Harry ended up back in school. It was weird, trying to work his way around Muggle business practice, work out sums and figures he hadn't used since year five, learn new maths he didn't ever think he would need, and then go home and teach it to himself all over in the context of magic. There was probably an easier way, had he looked a little harder, but he didn't need easier. He went to bed every night feeling directional and fulfilled in a way that he never had during Auror training. He had spent those two years feeling like he already knew what to do to catch evil, and he resented every second. This was challenging, exciting. He could easily get lost in not understanding something, and had to push and fight his way back to the surface.

On weekends, he went and saw properties. He hired a letting agent, a Muggle one who was endlessly confused by his non-specific purpose.

 _"Really, Mr Potter!_ " he would cry, _"If you would just tell me what the space is for, this would being going more smoothly!"_

But finally, on the third Saturday of endless showings, Harry followed the man into a two-storey, open warehouse with bright windows that faced the river. There was a grain elevator still in a corner, holes in the floor, and beams that desperately needed reinforcement, but the bones were all he saw. He saw vaulted ceilings and sturdy floors. He saw open space and places for waiting rooms and offices.

He felt his heart swell.

"This is definitely it," he said firmly to the agent.

"It's a bit more than what you asked to pay, the lease,” he apologised. “I can try and talk it down."

"No. I’ll take it. It's perfect.”

* * *

 

All told, it took a year. One year from that day, he stood in the centre of a building that he suddenly owned instead of leased; he had learned enough carpentry to fix the floors, hired a handyman to help with the walls, and he and Ron had placed protective charms and wards on the building.

He bought a nondescript sign for an innocuous company to make Muggles less curious and connected to the Floo Network—the permits from the Ministry alone had taken four months.

With Luna helping, he decorated the space with soft, cushioned flooring in the practice space, added a moveable duelling stage, and found Muggle gymnastics mats for tumbling, disguised with magic to look vaguely like the large floor pillows that had once adorned Trelawny's office.

The empty space was one thing, but it felt like such a small part of the opening. He knew he needed to advertise. So he put posters about the opening day in every place he could think of, up to and including a poster in each of the common rooms at Hogwarts. McGonagall seemed pleased enough to help him. Eventually, after several shots of whisky, he even called _The Prophet._

When the piece came out, he winced at the photo. He supposed he was looking healthier—if a bit paler than normal; he had, after all, been running endlessly to try and keep the anxiety at bay. As promised, eating and sleeping had made him look less corpse-like. But there was something etched on his face that he hadn't realised had crept in. He didn't dislike the lines on his face or the darkness under his eyes. They were now from hard work rather than self-inflicted torture, but they shocked him nonetheless. There was a deep, dark part of him that knew why. He hadn’t ever really thought about what he would look like getting older. _Ageing_ , he thought. _I’m ageing._

He read the piece with a critical eye. Short, but sweet. Informative, but tantalizing enough that he hoped it would help. Parts of it made him cringe but Luna reassured him that it was fine. That it would be helpful.

_Miss those old school days? Wishing you could still duel or practise those tricky spells safely? Want to learn more defensive magic or improve your skills? Harry Potter is offering the chance for you to do just that._

_With his new business venture, 'Dumbledore's Army', Potter invites all witches and wizards, young and old, to join him in an inviting, safe, and social setting to work on the basics of protective spells. He emphasizes that entertainment, and not injury, is the goal of the club._

_"It's modelled after old muggle 'boxing gyms'," says The Boy Who Lived. "Afternoons and early evenings, there'll be classes on using different spells and jinxes, tailored for different ages. In the evening, the duelling club will open up. We’re holding round-robin tournaments once a month. Membership can be monthly, or on a pay-as-you-play basis. The focus will be on fun, with a bit of skill testing thrown in for those who want an added challenge."_

_The ‘DA’ will open next month. Tickets to the grand opening can be purchased at any wizarding pub, or by contacting Luna Lovegood, the centre's office manager._

_Mr Potter thanks all for their interest, but may not respond to individual inquiries._

"Well, I think it's brilliant," gushed Hermione as she read aloud in the middle of the living room one evening.

"Yeah, but you're Hermione,” Harry grumbled. “I think people are going to turn up just because it's _me_."

"Well, maybe, but that's not a bad thing,” she argued. “Once they see how fun it is, they'll stay anyway. Gosh, I am excited to duel again. Who would have thought?"

"Hermione, you are a Gryffindor. That's not a bit surprising," Harry laughed, happy for the support, but nervous nonetheless.

"Harry, my only worry..." Hermione started. He braced himself for the onslaught he had known would come. "Are you sure about running the place all on your own? It seems like an awfully big job, and Luna can't stay forever. She has to go back to running _The Quibbler_ at some point."

Harry sighed, scrubbing at his face. "You're right, I know that. I just don’t want to hire someone. Or look.”

Hermione smirked at him, and read from the article again, and he groaned as Ron laughed in the background.

Despite the knowledge that he was going to need more help at some point, Harry didn’t remember to start looking. In the chaos of finishing the work on the building, Luna filled in the gaps of his ability to do everything all at once so well that he was able to ignore the fact that she was going to leave him at some point.

Which is why Oscar was a surprise. The young man, just out of Hogwarts, had turned up at Luna's door, begging to be an assistant three days before the opening, despite the fact that Harry was pretty sure he had never mentioned to anyone except Hermione that he was looking. For some reason, though he was over-enthusiastic and underqualified, Harry hired him on the spot.

In response, Oscar immediately made himself indispensable. Within the first hour of meeting him, Oscar had fixed the leak in the pipes that neither Luna or Harry had been able to figure out, hung the hand-painted DA sign, and solved the problem of a theme for the grand opening.

Harry knew from school that Grand Openings needed direction and activities if they were going to be successful. They brought out people who had come on interest alone, and not necessarily because they were ready to spend money. He wanted to make his opening fun, but for the life of him, he couldn't work out a theme that wasn't unbearable or an immense amount of work.

"You know," Oscar said, hearing Harry and Luna discussing the problem yet again. "Those old school fairs were always fun… did you two go to Muggle primary? Did you have those?”  
  
Both of them shook their heads, confused but suddenly in rapt attention.

Oscar cleared his throat and said, “They were full of silly activities. Nothing too flashy, not super expensive, but always so much fun. We have space for that here. Could be like a funfair, with games and practice duelling for those of age. Snacks, of course. And you could have rides outside—course, we'll have to put a shield up in the area or whatever, but if you're selling tickets, there'll only be so many people right?”   
  
Harry and Luna just stared at him for a moment.

“What?” Oscar demanded. “Why are you looking at me—oh, bugger it, have I overstepped? I'm sorry, I do that. Forget I—”

"Oscar," interrupted Luna. "That's brilliant. Can I put you in charge of organising it? Harry has too much going on, and if you are in charge, there'll be less that gets forgotten."

Oscar went bright red but beamed with pride as he immediately agreed.

* * *

The night before the opening, Oscar had been true to his word. He had recruited his friends to help him, and the building was beautiful. There were games everywhere you looked, magic mixed with Muggle. Lolly pulls and ring tosses; guessing games and rides outside; the duelling stage decorated with balloons and streamers; the main lobby full of folding tables that would hold oodles of food and baked goods from various bakeries and mums from all over Oscar's life. It looked welcoming and approachable at the same time.

Harry was still nervous, but he knew for sure that, if nothing else, the DA was in store for a wonderful party. Sitting in the office the night before, organising last-minute ticket stubs, he felt hopeful. And hopeful was such a good feeling that he was grinning like an idiot.

"Harry," Luna said as she put down the accounting books for a moment. "I have something for you… sort of a token of good luck."

Harry smiled even wider, immediately anticipating being handed a radish or a necklace of butterbeer corks. Instead, Luna reached behind her desk and took out a large, square parcel he had not seen until she touched it. At her indicating, he pulled back the paper, and felt his mouth fall open.

Inside, he found an old, torn piece of parchment. Across the top, the words  _ Dumbledore’s Army  _ in a familiar scratched hand. Beneath the heading, two rows of names were haphazardly dashed.

"Luna," Harry whispered in awe. "How?  _ When _ ?"

"Oh, I took it back from Umbridge in fifth year,” she said noncommittally, waving a hand flippantly. She didn't even notice, the horrible woman. She didn't care anymore, after all, once she'd caught us. I've had it ever since, but I think it belongs here, don't you?"

He looked at her, embarrassing tears springing to his eyes, and nodded.

"Harry, we are all so proud of you. Excited. I think this is going to be amazing. A place to bring people together; it's exactly what the world needs."

Harry stood up, and with the frame in one hand, hugged Luna hard. He really did love her. Thank god, he thought, for Ginny making them sit with her in that train car.

"Come on,” she said, releasing him. “Let's put it up on the wall where the sign is painted."

And so it was that beneath the sign that read Dumbledore's Army that Harry hung the framed parchment of the original DA members. It fittingly complimented the quote beneath it that read, “ _ It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.” _

He was trying to make sense of his emotions as he read the names; some were still alive. Some had died in the fight. He waited for the panicked guilt to set in, waited for the crush on his ribs, the shortness of breath as he thought of the sacrifice of the war, of the pain. But it didn't come.

Instead, he was bolstered. Instead, he felt alive. He was proud of those who had lost their lives. At the same time, he was aware that he owed them his survival. He had survived, and here was proof that all that had happened was real.

 


	10. Outset

 

When he woke the next morning, having not really slept that well, he felt a familiar buzz in his brain, just behind his eyes. The pain had returned, and he felt fear force its way into his heart. He was running through the mud again, stuck. He couldn't really breathe, for a moment. He rushed out onto the landing, with the intention of throwing up, but was stopped short at the sound of laughter coming from the kitchen.

_ Neville _ , he thought.  _ Neville and Luna, and Ginny. I asked them to stay. _

He squared his shoulders, ignored the ringing in his ears, and walked down the stairs with purpose.

And was properly sick in the umbrella stand.

Neville stood before him, having come out of the kitchen. He chuckled. "Good thing it isn't raining. Feel better?"

"Much," Harry said weakly.

"Good. Let's go! Lots to do."

For the rest of the day, Harry didn't have time to feel like shit. There was too much to do, too many people to introduce himself to, too many tours to give and duels to be challenged to; over four hundred witches and wizards were registered. Hermione and Ron had brought Rose and Hugo, and stayed for an hour or more until Hugo got fussy. The stream of people was constant, all the pre-sale tickets having sold out, and more people showing up on the off chance they'd get in. And more than half of them signed up for full-year memberships by the time Oscar was done with them. The young wizard was in his element; he was everywhere, all at once, and no one left without having at least taken a 'free week' pass. 

At three o'clock, when the last of the guests had been ushered out, Harry could only stand in the middle of the slightly-disastrous room, his mouth hanging open. He turned to Ginny and Luna, who were lying unceremoniously on the duelling stage, laughing hysterically for no reason he could see.

"Merlin. This might actually work, huh?" he announced into the open room.

They all burst into laughter again, pointing at his shell-shocked expression and the bits of confetti-strewn all over the floor Harry had just joined them when there was a quiet, but decisive knock at the door to the stairwell.

"Should I let them in?" Oscar asked around.

Harry was consulted with blank stares and finally, he sighed and gestured the go-ahead to Oscar. "Well, one more can't hurt. No more after, though. We need to start cleaning up."

When Oscar wrenched the door open, he disturbed the second knock of the single wizard standing on the other side. A wizard dressed in soft grey robes. With feathered blond hair, and steely, blue-flecked eyes.

Luna sat up quickly, suddenly on guard in a ludicrous echo of their surroundings. Ginny sat up next to her with a loud  _ oh  _ on her lips. Neville took a step forward, sidling just in front of Harry in a clearly defensive posture.

Poor Oscar, noticing the commotion, looked from Harry to the wizard, and back to the room before he muttered, "I'm guessing we know him?"

"Harry, love, would you like us to go clean downstairs, or…?" Ginny asked, having stood up and touched Harry's arm.

"Um, yeah, Gin. Thanks. I'll be down in a minute."

Taking Oscar's arm without explaining, the four of them strode past Draco and down the stairs. Neville left with a hard, pointed stare at both of them, but Ginny pulled him with her a moment later, leaving them alone on the landing. 

"Hi," Harry breathed after a beat. 

Draco faltered a moment, as though all his confidence had suddenly remembered who they were and where they were standing and what they had talked about last. He was quiet when he finally asked, "Is it okay that I'm here? I'll leave."

"I… erm, I guess so. No, it's fine."

"Place looks amazing," Draco said, gesturing around the room he'd barely seen.

"Thanks."   


"You look—” 

"Draco," Harry interrupted harshly.

"Sorry. But you do. You look… so much better. I don't even know if I'd recognise you. You have your swagger back."

Harry nodded. "Parts of it. Some of it is new."

"Lots of it, I think."

"How did you…?"

"Well, Ron, I guess. He told me, really. But, I, uh, saw the article too. It was good. Did you force them to print what you wrote?"

"On pain of bad publicity, yeah," Harry chuckled. Draco looked shocked. Harry paused for a moment, confused. Until he realized he was smiling, and chuckling. And carefree. He stopped smiling.

"I owe you an apology."

"Not really. At least, no more than I owe you. Equal damage, I'd say."

"Still."

"I know."

Draco's eyes left Harry's face, whether intentionally, or because he had seen the stage. His expression softened.

"Hey, that looks familiar."

"What?"

"Second year," he stated with a shrug, striding past Harry to walk toward the platform. He sat down lightly on the edge. Harry saw nothing for it but to follow suit.

"Oh, yeah,” Harry said, remembering. “I didn’t remember. That wasn't a great moment for either of us, was it."

"Not especially," Draco laughed. And his face changed. Suddenly, the nearly two years Harry had just noticed on his own face appeared in Draco's. It was gorgeous; the light lines just starting, the slightly wiser eyes. It made his heart hurt.

"I should go help clean up," Harry said, standing again. Draco jolted at the sudden movement. 

"Yes, and I should go,” he stammered, leaping up after Harry. “I'm sorry to… barge in unannounced. Ron thought it might be okay, but—”

"Draco, it is okay. Seriously. I'm glad you’re seeing it. Maybe one day, we can have a rematch on that stage."

Draco froze mid-stride, and looked at the ground. Draco had not, Harry saw now, been anticipating friendliness. Harry didn't know what he  _ had  _ expected; but then, he barely knew what he was saying at this point.

"Yes, maybe. Bye, Harry. You really do look good."

"Thanks. Hey, Draco?” Harry waited until Draco turned to look at him. He tried to smile in return. “It really is fine. That you're here."

Draco paused, his stance guarded. And the pause was all Harry needed. After all this time, a pause was more than he could have asked for.

* * *

"What. Were. You. Thinking. Ronald." Ginny was furious, her face bright red as she punched his arm as punctuation. 

"Ouch! Ginny, stop!” He retaliated and covered his head as he let Ginny into the house. “What are you  _ on _ about?"

"Why would you tell Draco to show up at the opening?" Ginny shouted, kicking off her boots and slinging her coat. 

Ginny had left the opening and raced straight to Ottery St. Catchpole to yell at Ron. Harry had left with an odd grin on his face, but she was worried nonetheless. Clearly, Ron didn’t share her fears. 

Instead, once he understood why he was being berated, he simply grinned and said, "So, he worked up the nerve in the end, hey?"

Which earned him another punch.

"Yes!” Ginny stormed. “He showed up at the very last possible second! Why would you do that? And even if you were going to, warn a person, why don’t you.”

"Well," said Ron carefully. "It’s not like I didn’t think about it first.” 

“Did you ask Hermione?” Ginny demanded. 

Ron scoffed. He ignored Ginny’s question. “For your information, I had two  _ very good  _ reasons for telling Draco to go to the opening.” 

“I highly doubt that.”

“ _ One _ ,” Ron continued. “Because I think that they are going to run into each other anyway, and meeting in a controlled and predictable place seemed better than meeting for the first time in the street, with none of us there to act as buffers.”

Ginny folded her arms but did not reply.

“And two, I was dead tired of Draco asking me how Harry was,” Ron finished with a shrug, handing Ginny a cup of tea and a biscuit she hadn’t asked for. 

She deflated slightly and took the peace offering, following him to the living room and flopping down. "Well, Ronald, one little problem with that argument,” she said around a bite of the ginger biscuit. “You didn't actually  _ tell  _ anyone that it was a possibility, so there was no  _ control _ or  _ predictability _ ."

"Er, yeah, well, it sort of slipped my mind,” he said apologetically. “So how badly did it go?"

Ginny looked away and blushed, "Um, it sort of went… well, fine."

"Fine!?” Ron howled. “You are here punching me and yelling over the fact that it went  _ fine _ ?"

"Okay, but that isn't the point! It  _ could  _ have been a disaster. You had no idea if Harry was ready for that.”

"Gin," Ron started, more gently this time. "It's been a year. I know you've been there for him, and he loves you for it, but at some point, you have to let him move on. Try again, to make a life for himself."

"I know that, but…" She looked back at Ron, feeling her eyes glaze slightly. She couldn’t finish her sentence, but she knew she didn’t really have to. Ron knew. He knew more than she actually wanted him to. 

Having a brother so close to you in age had always been slightly complicated; in her mind, he was not her protector. He was not her confidant. He was instead her direct rival. But when you fell in love with your brother’s best friend, it tended to change the boundary lines a little bit. It had forced them to renegotiate the terms of their sibling rivalry. Since those days, back at school, Ginny had learned that using Ron as her well-reasoned sounding board actually had its benefits. Now though, she knew she was in for a lecture. 

"Oh, Ginny,” he sighed. “We've talked about this. Harry… well, he's gay, isn't he? He isn't going to suddenly change his mind on that one.” 

Ginny shook her head, feeling her cheeks heat again. "Yes, I know, Ron. It’s not really that. It was just… well it was nice to have him needing me. It’s not like I don’t know that he’s fine now. Or, as close to fine as any of us are, I suppose."

They sat in awkward silence for a moment until Ron cleared his throat and didn’t look at her when he asked, "What happened to that Adam bloke?"

"Same thing that always happens.” Ginny shrugged. “I got boring, and he left."

"Ginevra Weasley, you are not boring. You are just in love with the wrong guy."

"Ron, I'm going to shock you here, but you need to believe me. l think I may finally be through with loving Harry Potter."

"Joyful days? I think?” Ron teased. “What happened?"

"The past couple months, it's been easier to… not be. You know Harry's new assistant? Oscar?"

"The foetus? Yes," Ron said, already wrinkling his nose at what he knew was coming.

"Oh stop it, he's not that young."

"Ginny, it's like six years."

"Only five. For me. Anyway, he's asked me out, and I've said yes. We'll see, won't we.” Her face set itself into a hard line quite without her permission. She looked like the little kid she knew he had always laughed at. She tried to relax. “Besides,” she insisted. “He's more mature than you."

"It's your life, Gin. I long ago stopped running it. So wait, what's happened with Harry and Draco then?"

"No idea. Harry came back downstairs after he left with a silly grin on his face, started cleaning up, and refused to talk about it. I don't even know what happened, just that Harry seems fine."

"Well, good."

"Is it though? They hurt each other so badly."

"Not our concern. They have to decide what happens next. Not us."

"But  _ you _ are facilitating, and that's okay?"

"I am not facilitating, I am just… friends with Malfoy, which believe me, is weird in its own right. I just provided a friend with information. Now I'm out. And, so are the rest of us. No. More. Meddling.” 

"Fine."

“Ginny,” Ron warned. 

“No, I mean it. I’ll stop.” 

"Good."


	11. Duel

Harry didn't see Draco again for a month. Not that he would have noticed. 

Probably. 

He was busy with the sudden influx of people in his life. Before he knew it, he had a full docket every hour the DA was open; private lessons, group defence classes, and— his personal favourite—the full-swing duelling club. Even with the fact that Sunday's were only open in the afternoon and he kept the club closed to clients on Monday, life was hectic.

Perhaps a bit  _ too  _ hectic.

"Suppose I really will have to hire another teacher, hey?" He was finally sitting down on a mat after a day of not eating or drinking, or really having time to sit for five minutes.

Oscar looked up at Harry and said, "I know someone. Your year at school, actually, least I think so… maybe not. Oliver Wood? He's my cousin. He's always been a fair fighter. Anyway, I don't know what qualifications you want, but he's been looking for work. He might suit, no?"

"Wood?" Harry said, surprised to learn of the connection. "I thought he was playing for Puddlemore?"

"Was, until this year. He got tired of the schedule, and he kept getting rotated to the reserve team. He quit."

Harry remembered the pain of having a crush on Oliver Wood as a distant memory that he didn’t care to repeat. It was nice, remembering something so normal and uncomplicated from youth. 

When he realised Oscar was waiting for a reply, Harry grinned, "Yeah, he'd be awesome. See if he can come in? He'll need to do some practical and stuff, but it'd be great to have someone I know.” 

When Wood arrived the following week, ran a few drills with Harry and interviewed with Luna, they hired him immediately. He was so run off his feet that he may have hired a troll, but he was pretty confident that Wood would do a decent job. He handed over two closing shifts a week, and Saturday mornings. The free hours felt strange and foreign, and he relished in them by wandering to some of his favourite London places, restaurants and cafes, less terrified of the city now that he had spent some time in it, happy and carefree. 

"I told you," smiled Collette when he admitted it to her over coffee.

"Collette," he hesitated. "There's something else…"

"Hm?"

"Draco. He showed up to the opening, and… well, truthfully, it was nice. To see him. Talk to him. I'm not sure what to do with that."

"Well, I can't tell you what you should do. What do you want?"

"I don't know. I thought I'd forgiven him. No, I have, actually. I didn’t really have a right to be angry, to be honest. But does that mean I should care still? He  _ left. _ ” 

"You might have too, roles reversed.” Collette shrugged. They’d talked about this before. Harry was used to her straightforward gestures now, less sanitised now than they were at the centre. “So you just have to ask yourself; Is it enough?"

"Enough what?"

"Enough hurt to ignore the obvious love that is plastered all over your face right now?” She grinned at him. “I mean, it's been what, almost two years? And you still have that goofy smile just from mentioning him. Maybe you owe it to yourself to see what remains, now that you are doing so much better. Fix what was broken, if nothing else."

"Maybe,” he shrugged, trying to school his face. “Or maybe I should move on."

"Yes, maybe you should. As I say, that is up to you. Just don't ignore what happened. That will only breed resentment."

Collette had never been so unhelpful, and it took him two more weeks to sort out his own emotions on the matter. Finally, he landed on sending an owl. An owl was innocent. Ignorable. Easier than showing up at his office, demanding that they talk. If Draco didn't want to see him, Harry knew he just wouldn't respond, and that was fine. The message he chose was simple, open-ended.

_ How about that duel? Let me know if you are free. _

_ \- Harry _

He sent it off over lunch, when he was pretty sure Draco wouldn't actually get it right away and he’d get a bit of a breather between the fear of sending it and having to read a reply, if one came. Instead, however, a handsome great horned owl showed up at his office window less than an hour later, a small piece of parchment in his talons.

_ Thursday? I don't finish until 8, but I could come by for a bit after. _

_ \- Draco _

_ Thursday is tomorrow, _ his brain panicked. Surely that was too soon. But he let himself dash off a reply, and then attempted to quiet his stupid heart. It was just a duel, a thing that was now his business. It meant nothing.

But even he knew that was a lie.

Draco agreeing to come and see him was humongous. Momentous. He had so much to apologise for, so much they needed to discuss, even if there could be no reconciliation. He had no plans for the future, but they needed to end things better. Properly. With Harry fully present, aware of what was happening, able to ask questions and offer apology and forgiveness. 

He forced himself to only think of this as he pushed himself through the next day. Thursday, there was no duelling, so his last client was a private lesson with the adorable old Mrs Pinkle. He sent Oliver home early, rather than having him around when Draco arrived.

"That's it, Mrs P! I almost felt it that time. We'll have you jinxing your mailman in no time!"

"Oh, you are a dear boy, Mr Potter. I've always been so rubbish at this."

"Nonsense, you're doing really well."

"My goodness, look how late it is. I'll keep you from your next client."

"You're my last."

"Oh? You might want to let that nice looking young man waiting at the window there."

Harry felt himself blush, "That's my… friend. He's just here to see the place."

Mrs P eyed him suspiciously for a moment, then nodded in a disturbingly knowing way before asking, "Does this 'friend' of yours have anything to do with me not setting you up with my granddaughter?"

Harry just grinned. "Goodnight, Mrs P."

He watched as she walked out the door, as Draco grinned and shook her hand, said something that made them both laugh, and as he held the door for her. He took a deep breath as Draco turned, and walked through the entrance to the practice room.

"I brought food," Draco said, holding up a carrier bag. "I hadn't eaten, and then I figured I should bring enough for you in case you hadn't."

"I can always eat," Harry said, smiling in what he knew was a bizarre, guarded sort of glee. His entire body wanted to just run to Draco, mutter an apology for everything, ever, and crush him against a wall. He forced his brain to move in another direction.

"Yes," Draco replied, a ghost of a smile on his own face. "I remember."

They sat on the stage, cross-legged and many feet apart on the stage. Draco handed Harry a curry container that smelled like heaven in a memory.

"Tikka from Rahim's?"

"Where else," Draco said, pulling out his own container and handing Harry a fork.

They ate in silence for what felt like a decade. The food was perfect; it was Harry's favourite, but he hadn't eaten it yet since being back in the city. He'd found another curry, of course, but it wasn't the same. This Tikka was perfect. Creamy, and just spicy enough. Of course, he knew that Draco was eating lamb korma, with no spice at all. He hated spicy food, and had often refused to even kiss Harry if he'd been eating curry. In the before.

_ Before _ .

The memory jolted his brain awake, and he cleared his throat. He had to say something.

"Draco, um… why are you here?" Harry flinched internally; he hadn’t exactly meant to say  _ that _ . 

Draco looked up with his fork halfway to his mouth. It was clear that he hadn't been anticipating the question, which was fair since Harry had brought him here on the pretence of a duel. He waited for a snide answer from Draco, as usual. But Draco paused a moment longer than Harry had expected.

"Erm," he began. He sighed, and lowered his fork, "Honestly, Harry? I feel like we need to talk."

Harry sighed, relieved, "Oh thank God. Me too. I just, at the very least… I owe you an apology."

"What? Why? No, you don't! If anything, I owe you an apology. I—”

"Draco, you have got to be kidding me. It's obviously me… I'm the one who was—”

"Who was what? Sick? Broken? I abandoned you when—”

"Draco."

Draco put down his food forcibly and crossed his arms, glaring. "Harry."

They both stared for a moment, caught in their usual stubbornness and hard-headed anger until suddenly, the tension broke, and they both burst out laughing.

"Well," Draco said once they had calmed down. "Maybe we just agree that we both suck?"

"Agreed."

"Okay. So, duel?"

"I mean, I guess so?"

So they duelled. Which was weird. The last time they had been standing across from each other, wands raised, and bowing, they had been enemies; at least, twelve-year-old versions of an enemy. Harry couldn't stop laughing, which was clearly starting to annoy Draco. But Harry couldn’t help it; the sight of a flushed, angry Draco, so much like he was a kid again, was hilarious. 

Hilarious, that is, right up until Draco threw a stinging jinx at him that hit him square in the chest and abruptly stopped his laughter. For the next hour, they threw things back and forth at each other. Draco quite often missed his shield charms, and even though Harry had been duelling regularly for a month, there were moments where Draco caught him off guard. 

Though that was likely because he kept getting distracted by the way Draco's hair fell, or the fact that he had arrived in Muggle jeans and a soft blue sweater, whose sleeves were now rolled up to the elbow.

Finally, Draco called it, out of breath, hands on his knees.

"Okay, truce. Merlin's beard, I am rusty. And, apparently, very out of shape. No wonder you look so fit; you've been running around duelling like a maniac."

Harry froze at the twisted compliment. He wasn't sure how to respond, so he brushed past it.

"Here, I have water in the office."

Draco collapsed on the stage and Harry brought him a bottle.

"So, same time next week? I'll start paying. That was too much fun."

"You don't have to—”

"No, Harry. I do. I have to pay you."

Harry didn't meet Draco's eyes. That was pretty much the last thing he  wanted to hear, the insistence that this was a business transaction. There was no chance, then, of them just being friends.

"Well, okay, but I mean, I'd just be closing early Thursday otherwise. It's no big deal."

Draco looked at him, and Harry refused to face him. He was sure he was blushing.

"So, what…" Draco said, "You just want to hang out?"

"If you're game. Yeah, I do. I miss…"

He let the sentence fall. He wasn't sure that he had an end that sentiment, anyways. There were lots of things he missed, but none of them fit. None of them were things he could say out loud, not right now.

_ I miss your exasperated sigh when I don't hear you the first time.  _

_ I miss holding your hand as we shop.  _

_ I miss seeing your face right before I pass out and I miss the way you sound when you are fast asleep beside me, and there is a tiny snore in your throat and the curve of your hip against me.  _

_ I miss your laugh and I miss you stroking my hair. _

_ I miss you. _

He didn't try to keep talking; Draco stood up, picked up his bag, and said, "Deal. I'll see you next week."

Harry let out the breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding as the door downstairs slammed shut.

"Well, Harry Potter," he said out loud to the empty space. "You'd better work out what the fuck it is you want from him then, huh?"

For the next three Thursdays, he and Draco would meet just after Mrs P's lesson. He would bring dinner, and then they would duel for an hour. They talked around the things they needed to talk about; they talked about Wood, about Oscar, about Draco's job. They talked about politics, and sports. They talked as acquaintances would talk, ignoring everything in the past. It was new, something they hadn't actually done, ever, and Harry was okay with it for now. 

But Draco also left right after the duel. As much as Harry was now looking forward to Thursday, he would end up frustrated and confused every night after Draco left, without fail. But worse, he had no idea  _ why _ he was frustrated. Wasn't this what he wanted?

* * *

 

"Well, I mean, obviously not, Harry," Collette said, that tone of exasperation back in her voice. "If what you wanted was to be friends with him, you'd be happy with this civility."

"What do I  _ do,  _ though.” 

"Harry, how am I supposed to know? I don't even know the guy! Honestly. You are a grown ass man. Work it out. How'd you get him to go out with you the first time?"

"Lechery. In an elevator."

"I don't even want to know. But, hey, try lechery again?"

"Too much history for lechery, I think."

"You are missing my point…” She sighed and scrubbed her face. “How is it you always miss my point? You have to let him know how you feel. Or you have to stop seeing him. It's just making you confused and miserable."

"Yeah, no kidding.” 

“Hey!” She scowled. "You asked."

So, on the one month mark of Thursday Duelling, Harry went into the evening with determination. Determination that got him exactly nowhere. He didn't say anything that he wouldn't have said any other night during dinner. He didn't say anything as Draco lay across the stage 'digesting' for twenty minutes. He didn't say anything as they stood up to duel.

But then, he lost every fight. He was too distracted to be defensive, too busy trying to figure out how to stop Draco leaving right away to throw appropriate spells in return. They had only been duelling for half an hour when Draco stopped.

"You okay? I think we should stop… I think I'm going to actually hurt you. What's up?"

"Nothing, sorry. Just distracted. We can stop."

"I'm actually knackered… long week. It'll be nice to get some extra sleep."

He picked up his bag and was headed toward the door when Harry burst out and, without meaning to, reached out and grabbed Draco's hand.

"Wait. Sorry," Harry looked down where his hand was suddenly burning painfully. He dropped Draco's hand. "Sorry. Um, just wondering if you wanted to… um. Goforcoffeethisweekend?"

"What?" Draco asked, leaning in to hear better. "Coffee?"

"There's a new café in Mortecue. It's where… I live there now."

"Um, I know, Harry. Coffee," he repeated. "Um, coffee. Mortecue. Yeah, sure. Sunday? In the afternoon?"

"Well, you don't have to. It's just… I was just asking."

"No, let's go. It'll be nice to see the town again."

"Great? Three?"

"Sure. Night, Harry."

* * *

 

The next two days passed slowly. Harry spent Saturday over cleaning his flat, and composing conversations in his head. He had to work out how to ask Draco the questions that kept rolling around there, and he had no idea where to even begin.

Sunday afternoon suddenly appeared, and with Oliver covering his day at the club, he spent the morning changing clothes and feeling absolutely ridiculous. He wandered to the café half an hour early, trying to slow his breathing.

Of course, when he was still waiting at 5:30, he was trying to slow his breathing for a completely different reason. He left, fuming, and paced around his living room for the rest of the afternoon. A million scenarios went through his head. One or two involved Draco being injured or ill, but most just contained a world where he had come to his senses and realised that coffee with Harry was not a good idea.

At around seven that night, an owl appeared at his window. The note attached to its leg only had two words;

_ I'm sorry. _

Letting the owl go without a reply, Harry went to bed. For a while, he didn't actually sleep. But somewhere in the drifting between awake and asleep, he became resolved. He wasn't going to push anymore. If Draco didn't want anything but a duelling partner, then a duelling partner Harry would be. Was it better than not having him in his life at all?

Harry would come back to that question later. Right now, he felt like no, it was worse. But he wasn't exactly being objective at the moment. He was angry and embarrassed, and just the teeniest bit heartbroken. All over again. He was really going to have to stop letting Malfoy take over his emotions like this. Friends didn't let friends become emotional puddles of goo over missed coffee sessions.


	12. Illuminate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to my completely erratic posting schedule. I'm sorry but I give you terrible, tame smut as recompense?

After a restless night's sleep, he was pleased to feel the resolve still pulsing through him. He went to work that morning resigned to the fact that he wouldn't bother replying to Draco by owl. He would ignore it. When he saw him on Thursday, he would pretend nothing had happened. They could go back to their normal Thursday night routine, and everything would be fine. Harry went about his day, cleaning the club top to bottom, filing paperwork, finishing up some phone calls and paying bills. Generally, making the most of a client-free day at the office.

Around noon, Luna showed up with lunch, promising she would leave at four, just as she always did. They both knew that neither of them would leave until well past seven, as they joked around and tried out new spells, and generally got none of the work that Luna meant to get done every Monday finished. He was glad of the company, since Luna's cheerful easiness made his head stop going over and over the never-to-be-mentioned-again incident.

When they finally began to lock everything up, preparing the lounge for the next morning, setting protective charms and wards and other general last steps, it was already quarter to seven. He was just finishing up the last bits upstairs while Luna swept downstairs when he heard the the front door. Casting a well-practiced amplifying charm at the floor, he listened hard. He liked to have warning of who was coming up. He should probably install some sort of system so he could just see.

"I'm sorry, we're closed—Oh. Hi. I'm not entirely sure that you should see him. Not today," Luna was saying. She hadn't let the person in, and Harry couldn't hear their response.

"Well, I understand that, Draco, but you really can't expect… actually, wait. I'll go ask, but I'm making no promises."

Harry had frozen at the sound of the word Draco, and now, he wasn't sure what to do to look like he hadn't been listening as he heard Luna's footsteps at the door to the loft.

"I know you heard, and I wouldn't have come up at all, except… well, he looks really awful. Like he hasn't slept at all. He sounds sort of desperate to speak to you, just for a minute. Only, I have to go. I promised Neville I'd pick up dinner, and I'm already late. I should just send him away, yes? Tell him to owl you tomorrow? I don't want to make you deal with him on your own."

"Luna, you go. It's fine. Let him up. We'll chat quickly, and I'll head out too. There's no sense torturing him, if it's as bad as you say,"

Luna bit her lip, undecided, before sighing, "Well, if you're sure. I have half a mind to jinx him and be done with it, treating you like that all over again."

"Luna.…"

"I know, I know what you said. I won't… I'm just saying, I'd like to. Okay, I'm off then. Don't forget to lock up."

She left him standing in the middle of the room. He didn't try and move as he heard footsteps. He was frozen in place as a very dishevelled blond man stalked into the room. Well, as dishevelled as Draco ever looked. His hands were shoved in his open robes, his shirt untucked and his black trousers slightly wrinkled. Luna had been right, there were dark circles under his pale eyes, and his skin looked sallow. He definitely had not slept.

"Harry—”

"Draco," Harry said shortly, cutting off what was sure to be a prepared speech. "You needn't have come all the way down here, the owl was enough. It's fine. It's… nothing."

Draco looked at Harry for a moment longer before looking at the floor. They stood in this deafening silence a moment longer, before Draco shuffled his foot and sighed.

"I did come, you know? To Mortecue. I was there, at three. But then I ended up watching you through the window. You've always looked so amazing in that black shirt. But then, you know that. There were so many people, everywhere, and all wizards. Which, remind me later to ask you about that; you never struck me as a magical town type of bloke.”

Harry just glared. He waited for where this was going. Eventually, Draco went on with a sigh.

“But I just… couldn't go in. There were people who would recognize us, and black shirts, and expectations. So I left."

Harry sighed right back. For a moment, he had nothing to say. He felt like any words would be pointless.

"There were no expectations, Draco. If you didn't want to leave here, you could have just said. Waiting for two hours for a no-show friend kind of sucks when you've just convinced the people in your town you aren't actually crazy."

"I know, I'm really sorry."

"Besides, I just wanted to talk."

Draco scrubbed his hand through his hair and wiped his face with an exasperated sigh. He mumbled something into the ground that made Harry just a little more annoyed. Draco thought he was going to stand there mumbling at him, in his own studio?

Harry, fury whipping through him, growled as he said, "What? Didn't quite catch that."

Draco dropped his hands in a huff and looked up, meeting Harry's eyes again.

"I said I can't just talk to you! I can't! You don't get it, do you?” Draco shouted. It took Harry by surprise, fury in response to fury. It wasn’t Draco’s style. He usually went with strong-but-silent anger. But he was mad now, and he wasn’t done.

“Just standing here, near you, it's nearly killing me. I still want you every bit as much as I did in that fucking elevator, Harry!” He took one step forward. “And standing here with you looking at me with those puppy dog eyes, when I know that all you are feeling is guilt—it's too much! I can't be near you and just be friends. I can't be near you and just talk. That's why the duelling was working. At least we were moving."

Harry watched Draco the entire time these words were pouring out of his mouth, watched his jaw tighten, watched his fists clench in and out. And he was shocked at how  _ wrong  _ Draco had gotten it. How had he managed to convince Draco that he didn't want him back? As Draco's Adam's apple moved one last time as he swallowed, Harry decided that there was an injustice going on. Draco thought he had the sole right to being tortured by another person's presence? Harry did not think that was fair.

So he pounced.

The pouncing and the crushing of lips was so reminiscent of another time, of different versions of them that Harry almost started laughing. Probably would have had Draco not chosen that moment to sink into the kiss, to drag his hands through Harry's hair, to sigh as though Harry had just corrected every evil in the world for the next five minutes. When Draco's tongue joined the assault, Harry didn't hesitate for a second before fitting their mouths together in rusty, but well-mapped territory.

He let himself melt into the position he had been dreaming about for nearly two years; his hips shifted forward, his weight supported by Draco's slightly taller frame. His arms snaked around Draco's neck, pulling the hair at the base to keep him close. Harry noted that Draco's hair was exactly the same length as it always was. Military regularity at the barber had always been one of Draco's rules.

He inhaled through his nose as much as his body would allow and nearly started crying at the  _ Draco-ness _ of what he found. Sweet and spicy, full of citrus and sunshine. The usual slight sheen of sweat on his forehead, and the coffee and parchment and quill ink that always lingered on his skin after work, smells of the Ministry that Harry knew disappeared completely when he got home and showered, leaving behind only  _ Draco _ . Thinking about this made it suddenly very hard to stand.

Dragging Draco backwards without detaching, Harry sat abruptly on the duelling stage, only to have Draco settle across his lap, another wonderfully right feeling. Thighs the right width, weight the right weight, hands on his shoulders to steady, Draco dragging back more forcefully now that he had stability and leverage. Harry's hands immediately in Draco's feathery hair, determined to muss it up.

But as Draco's hands left his shoulders to pry at the back of his shirt, attempting to pull it over his head, Harry suddenly felt off.  _ Warning bells, _ as Collette would say.

"Wait," he breathed, pulling away from Draco's mouth and halting his hands with his own. "D, wait."

Finally hearing him, Draco looked down at his hands, his wrists frozen in place by Harry's hands. He took a deep breath and drew back slightly, though he didn't immediately stand up.

"We just need to… slow down, a bit. I… I can't jump into this again," Harry said, a sudden and slightly embarrassing lump in his throat making it difficult for him to speak.

Draco leaned in, kissed Harry on the forehead, and nodded. He finally moved off of Harry's lap, sat beside him, no longer touching. Still, Harry felt the fizzle of energy between them, felt the heat of his body radiating into him, and he questioned the wisdom of listening to the stupid 'warning bells'.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"No apology needed. You're right."

"Am I?"

"Yes. Harry, I don't want to screw it all up again."

"Again? So… you want to…”

"Since the day I left you with Neville, Harry. You had to know that. Did you not know?"

Harry looked at Draco, who, for once, was looking straight back at him.

"I have questions," he blurted. "Things we didn't talk about… before."

"Okay," Draco whispered. "Okay."

Harry's willpower crumbled. He reached for Draco again, crawled over on his knees, slowly lowered Draco across the stage until he was lying down, fit their bodies back together, revelling in how well it worked, how their hips clicked, and their knees avoided collision, and their chests heaved in and out in perfect rhythm. His face ghosted over Draco, who reached up and pushed hair out of his eyes, lingered with a hand on his cheek, searched every crevice of his face with those deep and piercing eyes.

"I thought we needed to slow down," Draco said, smiling lightly, still stroking Harry's cheek with his thumb.

"I was wrong," Harry said, kissing him again, and unbuttoning the untucked shirt, undoing wrinkled trousers, moving light kisses over familiar scars, carefully chiselled pecs, lightly-haired stomach. It may have been two years, but Harry felt like he had been here yesterday. He still knew the curve of Draco's stomach, where to suck to make him gasp. He hadn't been with anyone else, so he supposed that helped. Draco probably had, his brain helpfully reminded him; what with not having to fight to stay alive, he'd likely had time to date. He shook his head gently and ignored the voice in his head, and moved lower.

"Harry," Draco gasped as Harry enveloped him in long lost heat. Harry took his time, feeling every ridge, every curve. Draco's hips moved erratically beneath him, just as they always had, and Harry felt his orgasm well before he came, just as he always had. By this point, Harry's own prick was pulsing with need, throbbing for what he'd so badly missed. He looked down at Draco, who was now spread eagle and breathing roughly, eyes closed.

"Draco, can I? I need…"

Draco's eyes fluttered opened. "Of course… please. Harry, please. Just… lube. It's, ah, been a while."

Harry cast a charm quickly, wandless magic coming easy to him in the midst of this much emotion. He pulled Draco's trousers and pants down completely, and wasted no time finding his own pleasure, unable to draw out the experience, lasting only a few moments before gasping and drawing down on Draco hard enough to make him gasp as well.

Harry collapsed next to Draco, who rolled closer and took Harry's hand into his own. Harry curled into him, the act of aligning his body with Draco almost more intimate and erotic than the sex.

"Well," he whispered against Draco's neck. "I'm not sure that is what this stage was expecting."

Draco's laugh made Harry's own chest shake, and he smiled.

"Wanna talk now, or later," Draco asked.

"Seriously? Not now."

"Good," he laughed. "I'm exhausted. I barely slept last night."

Draco curled over once more, pressing the full length of his body against Harry, and immediately closed his eyes. It can't have been very comfortable, what with only the hard, carpeted stage beneath him. Still, he quickly seemed to fall into a doze, his ragged breath settling into a gentle rhythm, the small, nearly imperceptible snore that Harry had missed so much playing at his mouth.

And as uncomfortable as he was, Harry couldn't have been convinced to move a muscle.

* * *

Draco dozed for half an hour. When he hilariously jolted awake, Harry laughed.

"Still jumpy, then?" he teased, kissing Draco gently on the temple.

"Shut up,” he replied, stretching and leaving Harry cold and alone. “Sorry, I didn't mean to actually fall asleep."

"S'okay. It hasn't been that long. I'm starving though. Food?"

"Sure."

They went around the corner to the pub. It wasn't a great pub, but it had food and it had whisky, and therefore, Harry decided it was enough for now. There was a moment during which he felt like he should apologise for the dingy place, a thing Draco hated, having never quite managed to shake off that portion of his upbringing. But he decided he didn't care. He was hungry.

He shook himself off gently and ordered their food. As he wandered back to the table, he realised that Draco was zoned out. It wasn't noticeable when you didn't know him, but as soon as you knew what to look for, it was easy to see that his casual gaze about the room, his crossed leg and his appearance of people watching was in fact Draco completely inside his own head.

"Hey, earth to Draco. Beer?" he thrust the pint in front of him and sat down.

"Sorry, was thinking."

"Don't. It's creepy when you do that," Harry quipped. The joke felt easy, which made his stomach turn over. How had they gone from being unable to speak about anything except the weather to this? Well. He knew  _ how _ . Sex solved all things, until it didn't. He wanted to kick himself, putting the cart before the horse like this.

"Okay. Hit me," Draco said, lifting his glass and taking a long sip. When Harry just blinked at him, he put the glass back down. "Questions? You said you had questions? Might as well start."

"I… is it that easy?"

"Nope. It's going to be painful and crappy, but since I plan on going nowhere now, you'll have to ask me at some point."

Harry gulped at the promising statement, but forced himself to look somewhere other than at Draco's mouth.

"So you want me to just launch right in?"

"Might as well."

Harry considered for a second. It seemed as good a solution as any to the fact that he kept stalling.

"Fine," Harry sat back, took a deep breath, and chose the first question that popped into his head. "Why'd you go out with me?"

"What? When?"

"At the beginning."

"I told you… I was curious. Plus, you were hot and you kept hitting on me. I just decided that it'd be a fun lark, if nothing else. At least, that's the answer if you're asking why I went out with you. If you actually asking why did  _ Draco Malfoy  _ go out with  _ Harry Potter _ , I have no idea, and you'll have to ask  _ The Prophet. I _ kept going out with you because, I dunno, you were funny. And still hot. And I liked you. Does anyone ever have a better reason? Okay. My turn."

"What?"

"What, did you think you were the only one who got to ask questions. My turn."

Harry conceded the point with a nod, laughing at the typical Malfoy-ness of the argument.

"Did I ever cause them? The panics?"

Harry inhaled sharply. He hadn't had to talk about the bad days in quite some time; he was on the lowest dose of Muggle meds he could get away with, and the fact that he was sleeping and not freaking out meant that his friends hadn't brought up the depression and the panic attacks in a while. He had forgotten that Draco had none of the closure they all had. He hadn't seen any of the work. He was gone during it, and Harry would get to that. But for now, he had to answer.

"Sometimes."

"How often."

"Near the end? All the time. Almost everything caused them, then, though. That's why the potions started happening. There was nothing you could have done."

"We can pretend that all we want, but Ginny found a way. She helped you."

"She convinced me to go to the hospital, that's all. You were too busy trying to cover up for me. It's what I convinced you I needed you to do. That's still not your fault, Draco."

"Yeah, whatever."

"Hey, you have to forgive yourself too, you know. At some point? It isn't worth it. It happened, it's not happening now."

Draco looked away. He wouldn't meet Harry's eye again, so he just decided he would go on.

The questions went back and forth for an hour. Through dinner, through a weird, shared pudding. Through three more pints. They were getting further and further away from the past, the questions stretching into conversations they'd never had, thoughts they'd never voiced for the sake of talking about Harry, or work, or worse, not talking at all. They had never planned the way normal couples do, they had never had those long-term talks. They were having them now.

"Fine," Harry said, laughing at the answer Draco had given about pets. "Marriage?"

Draco made a face, "I've never thought about it as necessary, no. You?"

"Meh, I dunno. I've never really noticed when people aren't married. Guess I'm sort of indifferent."

"Kids?"

Harry paused. He was unsure when they had gotten so off track. Still, Draco had answered every question for him, and honestly as far as Harry could tell. He wasn't going to start shying away now.

"I want kids."

"Just like that? No hesitation?"

"Nope. I've always wanted kids."

Draco looked at him, glassy eyes and a silly grin, "Me too. Okay, last one… for me, anyway.”

He hesitated and Harry gestured for him to continue, as though maybe he needed permission. “Do you blame me?" Draco blurted.

"Blame you?” For a moment, Harry was genuinely confused. “For what?"

"For leaving… for your illness… or, you know, anything."

Harry felt like he'd been punched. It had honestly never crossed his mind to blame Draco. He'd been angry, ashamed, heartbroken, angry again. But never accusatory, never blaming anyone, least of all Draco. He felt his slightly fuzzy head shake. He reached across the table.

"Draco, we've been over this, haven't we? I was hurting  _ you _ . You said it, even then. If you didn't leave, it would have killed us both. You, ending things? It shook me out of the comfortable belief that I was surviving—”

"Yeah, because I broke you even more."

"Maybe a little, but the end result is the same. You'll believe it someday. But I don't need to forgive you, I've already done that. You just need to forgive you."

Draco said nothing, but withdrew his hand from Harry's and finished his drink.

"Okay,” Harry sighed. “I guess I have one last one. The one I've been avoiding. How many? How many since me?"

"How many what?"

"Draco, please. You can just say you don't want to tell me. I can hardly blame you. It's a ridiculous question for a grown man to ask."

"Wait, how many… partners?” Harry just looked at him. "Hare, you're kidding right?”

Harry shook his head. “Forget it. Pretend I didn’t ask.”

“None, Harry.” Draco reached out again and poked Harry in the shoulder hard. “There hasn't been  _ anyone _ . Okay, once last year, a friend convinced me to go on a couple dates with this one guy, but I didn't… we didn't…"

"What about…” Harry hesitated. He felt ridiculous

"What?" Draco pushed

"What about Ed?"

Draco laughed, "Ron didn't tell you? Figures. Harry, Édouard. That was  _ Édouard _ ."

Harry blinked once as ancient history clicked into place in his brain, and he burst out laughing.

"Your French cousin. That man, the one that made me so jealous and so heartbroken that I went into intensive inpatient therapy, that was your  _ cousin _ ? The same one you've been best friends with since you were three?"

"The same. Harry, I didn't know you hadn't realised. I would have told you. How could you have thought I was just fine, so soon after you? That's crazy."

Harry laughed again, "Pretty much sums it up, doesn't it."

"Does that answer your question?"

"Guess so. Except that now I am concerned with how long we've both been single. That can't be right."

Draco sat back, laughing lightly and closing his eyes as he leaned back in his chair. It was late, and he still hadn't really slept. Harry noticed that same sort of gentle age on the man’s face that he’d noticed in his own; right now, it was highlighted by dark circles and messy hair. It was comforting.

"Probably not. But," Draco said. "I was single a long time before you too. Maybe it's just… only meant to be you."

Harry froze. This was the crap that Draco said. This had always been the problem. Whenever he tried to pull himself away, Malfoy found a way to drag him back, pull himself back into sharp, clear view. Make Harry question how he'd ever ignored him. It had been happening since sixth year, for Merlin's sake.

He didn't know what to do, though. They couldn't just get lost in the whirlpool of ‘us’ again. They knew better now; they were older, more cynical, generally just a bit less willing to believe their own bullshit.

"Draco, I can't… I just, I can't. Not yet. We can't just go back to what things were."

"Well, obviously. Idiot," Draco said, eyeing him through one eye, exactly like a dragon. "Even though, I feel the need to point out that you are the one who just fucked me on the duelling stage. Still, I'm fine with slow. I feel like I'm meeting you for the first time, anyway. You're different now, like a whole new Harry."

"I'm a new old Harry, actually. That's what Hermione keeps saying."

"Like before. Before the war."

"Yeah," he whispered.

"Well, then, New Old Harry. I shall simply have to  _ woo _ you."

He put down the glass he'd been toying with, stood up, moved to Harry's side of the table and brushed his shoulder before leaning down, and kissing him soundly, drawing an unexpected sigh out of Harry's throat. Just as he responded, Draco pulled away.

"Night, Harry. See you Thursday," he said, as he sauntered all too cheekily out of the pub and into the night.

"Bastard," Harry muttered, even though he fought a smile.


	13. Discovery

Draco woke up, not enough hours after he’d left the pub, with a splitting headache. Not to mention pain in other, underused areas of his body. That, and the overwhelming sensation that he could not go to work.

Typical Harry, getting him piss-faced, hungover drunk on a Monday night. After owling the office with his sick day notice, he went back to bed to try and shake off the worst of it. Just as he sobered up enough to have a lovely dream about flying through Norway with Harry beside him, he woke up again. 

He was in less pain, physically, but that had the disastrous side-effect of letting him feel the full weight of what had happened. It crushed him back into shoving his head under the pillow. He'd rather have had the hangover back, truthfully.

After puttering about his kitchen aimlessly for half an hour, he realized that he was going to accomplish nothing sitting with his own thoughts today. He threw a cardigan over his nightwear, and Flooed out of his flat.

Despite the fact that it was only eight in the morning Paris time, Draco found Ed right where he had known he would; hunched over his studio table, smudge pencil in hand, going over prints. It was likely that he hadn't actually gone to bed yet. And still, he managed to look effortless in that annoying way that Draco had to work hard to achieve.

In the small moment he had before he was noticed, Draco tried to eye his slightly-older cousin appraisingly, to see him as Harry might have that day in the market. He supposed that, technically, Ed was attractive, though he lacked a certain complexity that Draco tended to seek. His hair, eerily similar to Draco’s, fell easily and shorter than his own. He had pushed-back sleeves to reveal tanned, muscled arms, and somehow, even hunched like this, he conveyed the fact that he towered over Draco's not insignificant height.

He shook his head. It was getting him nowhere to try and see Ed as someone he didn't know; this man was just Édouard, his lifelong friend; the same one who he had come out to before anyone else. The same one who had always taken him along on adventures through family vacations. The same one who had pushed him out of a cherry tree when he was six, and then blamed him for climbing it in the first place. Somehow, Draco had come out of that experience both grounded and with a broken arm.

"You know it's Tuesday, right cousin?" Ed suddenly called across the room without looking up. He spoke in French, and Draco's fuzzy brain took a moment to process the switch. Which Ed took as an affront, adding, "Not that I mind. You know you can always stop by."

"I was sick," Draco finally replied, also in French.

"But not sick now? Curious, no? An excellent story, I hope."

"Ed, I was with Harry last night."

" _ Harry  _ Harry?” Draco nodded.  “Huh, really?” Ed replied. “Is he still alive?"

"No, Ed. I was  _ with _ Harry last night."

Ed's head finally snapped away from his work and he turned to look at Draco for the first time. When he didn't even blink, Ed shook his head and sighed.

“I see. So coffee then? And a pain killer?"

As he settled onto a chair across the table, he felt heaviness ease off his shoulders. Ed had always been this person for him. The one person who made him feel like he knew what it meant to have a family. When he brought him back a coffee, Draco felt the dopey grin on his face and wondered at its origins. As he dove into his story, though, he braced himself for the full force of Ed's disapproval. Having never met him, and having had to deal with Draco after the collapse, Harry wasn't exactly Ed's favourite person. Curiously, however, Ed sat in indifferent silence until Draco finished. 

"... and so I went home." He shrugged, unsure of how to continue. 

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you go home? I mean, I get Harry's hesitation, but you… I mean, we both know the reason you haven't dated since him is that you are still hung up on Saviour Boy for whatever reason.” Ed stood up and picked up his pencil again, tucking it behind his ear. “Now, he's slept with you and told you he wants you back. You should be jumping for joy or swinging from lamp posts or something. So tell me, what is it you're worried about?"

Draco thought for a moment. This was at the root of his discomfort, after all. Why he wasn't at work right now. It's not like he hadn't worked through a hangover before. This was different. This was great internal conflict, and he didn't quite know why. He hesitated before responding. He didn't know what to say. Well, no. He knew what to say, he just did not want to say it to Ed.

"I'm scared he's not ready."

Ed huffed. "That's not it. It'd be very noble of you, but, I know you... Try again."

"There's so much bad history. I'm not sure it's a good idea to get involved in-"

"Nope, still not it,” he interrupted. “What  _ aren't _ you saying, eh Lézard?"

It was that, the use of the stupid childhood nickname, that broke him down.

"I'm afraid that I won't be strong enough to leave him again this time."

Ed's stern resolve softened, his face falling back into familial concern. He moved to place a hand on Draco's shoulder.

"Draco, what if you don't have to?"

"But what if I do… and I can't?"

Ed sighed. "I thought we solved this one, two years ago. You have to stop living in maybes and possibilities. That's what your father tried to do. It didn't work for him either.” 

“I know but…” 

“You left him to save him, not because you didn't want to be with him. So there's really only one question if you are trying to decide whether or not to be with him again now."

"What?"

"Do you still love him?"

Draco sighed. That was the problem, of course. It was always the problem.

"Annoyingly, yes. Though I can already tell that his overwhelming positivity is going to take some getting used to. It's like he's the same, but… more."

"Stop being an idiot, then. We don't throw away available love just because one day it might be hard again. That's stupid."

Draco snorted, burrowing his head in his hands. "Thank you, as always, for your gentle words of encouragement."

"Yes, well.  _ You _ are only half the battle. Despite last night, he actually has more to get over, you realise. I'm sure his morning has been far more confusing than yours has been… I'm the only one who knows how hard it was for you to walk away the first time. He's feeling what you're feeling, times a hundred. Do you remember how bad that month was?"

"Exactly!" Draco suddenly shouted. "You were there through all of that time. You've been there since! Are you seriously advocating that I go back to him?"

"If he's standing there, willing to take you back, then yes."

"Just yes?"

"Fucking  _ yes _ , Draco.” 

"Well, Ed… I mean… fine?"

"Good. Draco, go home. Spend the day cleaning. That always clears your head. I'd bunk off and take you for brunch, but I have so much work. Because, as mentioned, it is  _ Tuesday _ . I'll come over at the weekend, okay? We will go out and talk properly."

"Yeah, okay."

"Think, but don't  _ think _ , you know?"

"Yeah, Édouard. Of course. Makes perfect sense."

Draco mocked, teased, but he did go home. He did think without thinking. For the rest of the week, he didn't contact Harry. He decided that he didn't want to push, didn't want to make Harry feel pressured. Even though his entire body ached to feel Harry pressed against him again, hands in his hair, lips on his neck. He had forgotten how right it had always felt. It made him think of that one bloke, the short one with shiny teeth that he'd gone out with last year, and how very wrong it had felt when he had kissed Draco at the end of the night. So wrong, in fact, that he had thrown up the second he had gone inside. He hadn't even told Ed that.

So. He really couldn't afford to screw this up. And he waited. Instead, he sent Neville an owl on Wednesday.

 

_ Neville, _

_ Ed’s coming into the city this weekend. You and Luna want to join us for a few? _

__ \- Draco _ _

 

It was a risk. He hadn't spoken to Neville since the incident at the opening and that interaction hadn’t actually gone well. He knew that he didn't actually have custody over Neville’s friendship; even when leaving Harry, Neville had chosen Harry. They had barely spoken while Harry was in the hospital. He didn't know where he and Longbottom stood now. Which was a shame, really.

The most shocking change of his recent life had not, in fact, been Harry. Instead, it had been the sudden and irreversible acquisition of all these non-Slytherin friends. Neville and Luna were incredibly wonderful, and he was ashamed of his younger self for not realising it sooner. Neville was fiercely loyal, calm when no one else was, and caring to the point of suffocating. Draco had found himself in that inner circle. Even when Draco left, Neville had called Draco every day for two weeks to check up on

Instead of surprised, he was relieved when a reply came later that day

 

_ D, _

_ Yes! Would love to see Ed... Love that guy. Luna says we can come if I don't get too pissed. We have a family dinner Saturday.  _

__ \- Nev _ _

_ P.S. I expect all the dirt on whatever is going on with you and HP. Luna keeps coming home with half stories—Ravenclaws. Useless gossips. _

 

He grinned to himself at the thought of an evening of drinks with his friend. He was suddenly hopeful that he could, maybe, possibly, perhaps, have his old life back.

* * *

 

On Friday, when Ed arrived, chic as ever, and they had headed into the city, Draco found himself suffused with warmth, lightness and hope in every pore of his body.

Of course, once the drinks started, this warmth may have expressed itself in embarrassing confessions of love, clinging and slight stumbling. Draco had always been a bit of a lightweight, so three pints and at least two shots he had not ordered himself was rather a lot of drink. Definitely  _ too  _ much to drink, in fact. 

He'd have regretted it, but he was definitely too drunk to worry. 

Harry was without plans on a Friday night; he had never been more content with the knowledge that he was happy with this choice. This new life left no room for the pretence that he was social and organised. He was too busy. 

Tonight, for example, he was staying at the DA for late hours, sending a giddy Oscar off on his date with Ginny, and Oliver home to his boyfriend. He was content overseeing the duelling, taking part randomly to show people new skills, but mostly just revelling in the energy and laughter that was all around him. It was beautiful. 

He had just finished locking up the office when the small, modern fireplace in the corner roared to life, and Neville's head appeared.

"Harry?" he asked hesitantly. He looked relieved when he saw Harry pop up out of the corner. 

"Hey, Nev. What's up?" Harry replied. 

"Erm, okay…” Neville took a deep breath and Harry got nervous. “So. You need to come out to the pub. Ed’s here, but also Draco won't stop asking about you. Luna and I have to go home, and Ed thought it was— aargh! Luna!" Neville's head disappeared, only to be replaced with the steadfast and slightly weary face of Luna.

"Sorry, Harry. He's a little drunk. You know what that’s like. He got away from me. I mean, you are more than welcome to come out, but you can also ignore Neville.”

Harry laughed but stopped short when Luna looked like she was going to leave. “Wait, Lu. Where are you?"

"The Hen, on Tottenham Court Road."

Harry looked down at his ancient blue button-up and ratty jeans. He should really just go home. There was no way for this to end well; drunk Draco was not a person he had seen in a while. He wasn’t ready to see Ed. He didn’t want to be the one who got called in the middle of the night instead of invited at the beginning. He sighed. They both already knew what he was going to do.

"Be there soon,” he told Luna, who smiled and disappeared. 

Draco. The pull of Draco. Always a problem, really.

The second he stepped out of the fire, however, he realised that his decision had maybe not been the wisest. He found his friends sitting in a booth by the corner, and two seconds after they noticed him, he was draped with a very, very pissed Draco. He was also immediately buffeted by a volley of conversations.

"Harry!” Neville cried. “I was just wondering why you weren't here."

"Neville, we really need to go home now," Luna said in apologetic tones.

"But,  _ Harry _ !" Neville shouted in reply.

"I know. You can be mad at me all the way home, but we’re still going. Sorry, Harry."

The third voice he heard was entirely new, and from the other white-blonde, tall man in the corner of the booth that Harry could have pegged as Draco’s kin with a blindfold. They almost  _ sounded  _ the same. 

"Harry? At last!” he called out. “I am Édouard! I think we met before, but perhaps not in the best circumstance."

Harry clawed his way out of Draco's grasp long enough to shake Ed's hand, accept Luna's apologetic hug, and pat Neville on the back as Luna helped him stand.

“I am so proud of you for coming!” Neville shouted in his ear. Harry laughed. 

"Why did you call me, Nev? You’re leaving.” 

"Yes, but Ed is unreliable. And I am drunk. And so is Draco. You should deal with him; you were the only option."

"He really wasn't, Neville, which is what I said before you snuck away and ambushed him," Luna said harshly. "Sorry, Harry. Do you want me to take him home with us?"

Harry almost nodded.  _ Almost _ , until Draco started shouting, "Ed! Come back here. You have to meet Harry!" across the entire bar as Ed suddenly wandered away. 

"No, you two go,” he sighed. “I've got this covered. I'll just… find a way to make them go home or something. I better go."

Neville put his arm around Harry's shoulders once more before Luna pulled him to the fire and whispered, "You're welcome, Harry."

Leaving Luna and Neville at the bar, he quickly followed Draco out the door, who was following his cousin into the nearly-empty street. Although, the weave which Draco had acquired probably didn't require speed. Taking a deep breath, Harry slowed himself into a sober, long stride, and quickly caught up to Draco. He was already relatively sure that he would  _ not  _ be thanking Neville anytime soon. He was just considering all the ways that he could make Neville pay for that Floo call when Draco stopped mid-step, and Harry crashed into him.

"Harry, I think Ed may have gone,” he said, whipping around in a panic. 

And sure enough, when Harry looked around, Ed was nowhere to be seen.

Harry was suddenly a little worried. "Did he Apparate? In that state?"

Draco shrugged and spun back forward on his heel. "Probably not… he does this. He might turn up. Walk!"

Draco took off again, stumbling slightly. Noticing that Harry wasn’t following him, he spun back around. "You aren't coming?"

"I'm just worried about Ed."

This made Draco pout in a comically large expression, and Harry had to bite back a laugh. 

"Don't be worried about  _ Ed _ . He's Édouard! He does this. He'll be fine. Worry," Draco said, taking two strides back in Harry's direction and catching himself as he tripped by wrapping his arms firmly around Harry's waist before hissing in his ear. "About  _ me _ ."

Harry just smiled. He'd even missed this version of Draco; drunk, jealous, a danger to himself and others, and clingy—an adjective that could never be used to describe a sober Malfoy.

As he wrapped himself further around Harry’s waist, Harry felt the missed time like a guttural punch, suddenly very aware that he was well and truly sunk now. There was no going back. He didn’t attempt to detach himself this time. He let Draco use him as balance, pulling him upright into a protective embrace. Draco almost managed to nibble on Harry's ear before he got sidetracked, and pulled away sharply, turning with one arm still wrapped around Harry as he attempted to move forward again.

"Let's get tacos!" he called into the street.

Harry chuckled. "You hate tacos."

"You're right. Draco, no tacos; too messy,” Draco mumbled. “Let's get flake!"

"That we can likely manage."

When Harry finally managed to get a nearly passed out Draco to his flat an hour late using a highly-questionable Side-Along, he was shaken and exhausted in equal measure. Spending time with the truly drunk always made him feel intoxicated too. He flung Draco onto his bed, which he knew was not ideal. But, he had been out of options; having been unable to get Draco to tell him where in London he lived, it was either Mortecue or Luna's, and he figured he had brought the mess upon himself so waking up Luna was a bit cruel. 

He pulled off Draco's shoes and threw a quilt over him before retreating to the bay window in the living room; Mortecue was so peaceful this early in the morning that the silence was almost eerie. He kept trying to be annoyed that he’d been landed with Drunk Draco, but he wasn't; he was happy and confused, lonely and yet gratified.

He shook his head, curled up on the sofa, and was instantly asleep.

* * *

Draco woke up the next morning in a state of slight panic. Not only was he hungover for the second time in the span of a week, but now he was in a strange bed and with very little memory of his night after around the third pint. He scrambled out of the twisted sheets around him, and got up quickly. He ignored the dizzy vertigo and pain that spread through him from his head to his fingers and rushed out of the bedroom wildly. His eyes did not land first on the kitchen table or the familiar man sitting there but instead found the old, gnarled broomstick bolted to the wall over the mantle.

"Oh, thank  _ Merlin _ ," he whispered, relaxing slightly before finally looking at the kitchen space of the flat. "It's you."

"Were you expecting someone else?" Harry smirked, amused and just a little bit more smug than Draco was used to seeing him.

"I… may not have that many clear memories about what happened last night," he admitted sheepishly.

"Shame. You were pretty hilarious."

"Why… I mean, how'd I end up here?" Draco asked, immediately regretting the question. "We didn't…"

"Seriously, Draco? No. It is not in my wheelhouse to ravage nearly comatose men,” Harry taunted. “You're only here because you wouldn't tell me where you live now, and I don't know."

Draco blushed. " _ Wouldn't _ tell you where I lived?"

"Nope. You were very adamant. This was apparently because we were going to take things slow, now that we were back together. You didn't think it was appropriate for me to know where your flat was."

Draco groaned and made his way over to the kitchen table, sitting heavily and dropping his head into his hands. Harry chuckled and pushed a glass of chocolate milk toward him. He took it gratefully, but couldn't quite look at Harry.

"I'm really sorry, Harry. I'd blame Ed, but I feel like maybe I'm a bit too old to be blaming others for my own drunkenness."

"Nothing to apologise for, really," Harry replied, nudging Draco with a socked foot below the table. "I'm quite a fan of Drunk Draco, if you recall."

Draco did look at him now and was relieved to only find humour in his face. Things were still fine. Well, actually, things were still up in the air, confusing and broken, but at least there were no added tensions.

They sat in silence for a moment, Harry organizing papers that presumably had something to do with the DA, Draco drinking his milk and also eating the hard-boiled eggs Harry had given him. It felt so normal, sitting at Harry's kitchen table of a Saturday morning, not speaking, not really even acknowledging each other. It made Draco a bit sad. This is where they would have been for nearly four years now.

_ If _ .

He took a deep breath. He was ready; at this point, it didn’t make sense not to just say it. He needed to know, either way. 

“Harry,” he began, hesitating only long enough for Harry to look up. “I mean. Concerning Drunk Draco's comments last night. I've been trying to give you space, but… I'm in. If you are, I mean."

Harry cleared his throat, looked at his hands. Draco tried not to hold his breath, determined not to play the Victorian heroine in his own life. It was hard though. He felt like maybe his story was entirely dependent on this moment.

"Well, Draco. I mean…" Harry paused, and it hurt Draco physically for the fraction of a moment that it lasted. "I'm not entirely sure I was ever  _ out _ ."

Draco felt the grin spread across his face before his brain had even registered Harry's sentence as 'good news'.

"Although, Drunk Draco may have had one more good point. Slow," Harry poked Draco's arm to make him look at him. "Slower, might be better, for now."

"I thought we'd already agreed on that. My point is that I don't want 'slow' to involve 'seeing other people'."

"Deal."

Draco’s grin grew wider. The word was so  _ Harry _ . So perfect. 

"Deal,” he repeated gently. Harry smiled at him. 

Draco stayed for the rest of the afternoon, not really doing anything except existing in the space surrounding Harry. His hangover felt worth it, and he almost turned down the potion Harry handed him half an hour later. He felt alive and free and perfect, and for the first time in two years, he didn't feel the niggling sensation of broken down guilt behind his eyes.

He kissed Harry when he left, with the promise of a date soon. A  _ real  _ date. He wasn't sure they'd ever done the dating thing properly, and he was determined that they would this time.


	14. Unite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter. The next one will not be. We are in the ending, for a while sure, but the end is in sight.

Months and months later, there were discussions with the Gryffindors, questions of why they had not really moved forward, despite the definitive happiness they both exuded. The questions were the polar opposite of the ones asked the last time. Yet, just like the first time, both Harry and Draco just smiled indulgently and told their friends that they were happy, and therefore, it really wasn't worth worrying over.

Despite the amount of time Draco spent in Mortecue, he was not living there, even almost two years into their reorganized lives. Harry was healthy, fit and happy, only having a panic attack once every couple of months, usually around the holidays. They were manageable, and they were survivable now. 

Still, there were moments in the middle of the night when Draco would wake up from a nightmare of the time before, a fear all his own settling into night chills and waking him. He would calm down almost immediately when he found Harry sleeping calmly at his side, but he wasn't sure they would ever both be completely whole. Maybe that was how it was best, though. Neither of them would have wanted perfect, sanitized health. They had been through too much, seen too many dark days; perfection would have been false, more painful than these scars they bore together.

One day, in a quickly waning fall, with a sky threatening rain, they sat together on the pebbly beach of the bay. Draco was reading to Harry, rather against his will. It had started innocently enough, with Draco being appalled that Harry still hadn't read  _ Frankenstein _ . He had apparated home, grabbed his copy, and was back on the beach before Harry could do anything about it. Now, as he lay there, his head on Harry's stomach, reading the horror story as Harry played with his feather-soft hair, he wasn’t exactly complaining. Harry had, truthfully, become better about reading since school, but he felt like Draco read the archaic language better than he ever would, and with him reading like this, Harry was understanding the story better than he would have if he'd had to read it himself.

"He sprung from the cabin-window, as he said this, upon the ice-raft which lay close to the vessel. He was soon borne away by the waves and lost in darkness and distance."

Draco stopped, and Harry looked at him, "What? Keep going."

"That's it. That's the end."

"What? So the monster just goes off on his own and dies? That's fucking sad!"

"Harry, the monster was a murderer."

"Well, yeah, but he was also abandoned and left alone, and didn't understand why he was alive. It's not a fair hand."

"I know. It's a horror story, Harry."

"I thought—you didn't warn me it ended so sadly.” Harry lay back again, his hand back on Draco’s hair, and was quiet.

Draco sat up suddenly and looked at Harry. "I'm sorry," he said, genuinely a bit concerned. Harry didn’t do the visceral emotional reaction thing as often anymore. 

Harry shrugged. "You know, it's just… whatever. I don't read sad stories."

"This isn't sad. This is a monster not killing any more people."

"I know. Sorry, I'm being stupid. Forget it,” Harry smiled a small smile. “It’s okay, Draco. Thanks for reading it to me. It was good. Weird, but good."

Draco laid back down, squishing in against Harry in the process until their arms were resting together.

"Hey, Harry?" he asked a moment later. 

"Hm?"

"Marry me."

Harry sat up.

"What?"

"Marry me."

Harry paused. "I thought we talked not doing that."

"We did."

"So?"

"So. Marry me."

"I…" Harry began. He had been about to start a big long speech, but as soon as he opened his mouth, he realised there was only one word he needed to say. "Okay."

"Okay."

They didn't have a big wedding. They didn't tell people, and it didn't make the papers. They stood up for each other, the officiant an adorably tiny witch who was too young to fully realise the history she was making. Draco brought his mother. Their friends stood by; all the Weasleys, Neville, Luna. Ed.

When the officiant asked, "Will you do all in your power to support and uphold this marriage?", Ron shouted, "We sort of already have, mate!" before echoing back with the others. There was only laughter, no fear. No panic.

The day passed quietly by the rest of the wizarding world, which confused Harry slightly. How could everyone just be going about their days when the world had so completely shifted?

As the days and the months went by, there was just mundane life. There were conversations and cups of tea and arguments over Quidditch teams. There were new milestones and new anniversaries, and slowly, the bits of their past that had been painful just made them stronger. They would realise that a fight was not worth it because it wasn't on scale with what they'd been through. They would decide things together rather than be divided.

The darkness was finally balanced with the light.

* * *

 

_ We watch this slip away _

_ And I watched you fall and break _

_ But instead of finding blame _

_ I'd rather find my way _

_ Home to you. _

_ -Sebastian Kole, Home _


	15. Part Three: Future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life. It is hard. And messy. And scary and perfect and awful and lovely and the most confusing part of the universe. It is full of ups and downs and in-betweens that you can't even begin to feel. These characters are just life. Come join them on the random meander through years of regular. Years of tea and dirty spoons. Years of adventure and quiet. Because at the end of the day, life is just daily. We find joy in that. If you need a reminder of how, try finding one thing that you think is beautiful. And then go half an hour at a time from there.

Draco grabbed Harry's hand in the corridor and pulled him back, leaning against a wall. Harry mimicked his stance and waited patiently for the freak out to hit.

"Harry, my love, my  _ heart _ …” Draco stared at him, hand in his hair, looking every bit like he might throw up. “Did you just agree to adopt  _ twins _ ?"

Harry chuckled. "Yes."

"As in not one, but two.  _ Two  _ separate infants."

"Yes, Draco,” Harry smirked. “Twins is two babies. Born at the same time.” 

"Yes, but. Two. As in, two middle-aged wizards, currently childless, with no experience save the occasional babysitting of our friend's children, living in a dingy flat in Mortecue with one extra room. Those same two men, but with  _ two. Babies. _ "

"Yes.… although, I feel the need to defend our flat. It's not that dingy.” Harry reconsidered. “But, uh, I suppose we will have to consider moving at some point."

Draco was very pale when Harry met his eye again. He stared back at Harry and muttered, "Merlin's beard."

"You okay? 'Cuz we haven't left the building. We can go back in there and tell them no."

Draco's panic was, if Harry was honest, a little bit adorable, and in spite of the inappropriate timing, Harry smirked and then could not hold back another laugh.

"Well, I'm glad you find this so amusing," Draco chuffed, although a small smile was now playing at his mouth and some of his colour was back.

“Draco, it’s going to be fine.” 

"I'll remind you of that humour when our two children are sick at the same time. Or needing school supplies and two of  _ everything  _ else at exactly the same time, because we suddenly have twins."

Harry took Draco's hand again, pulled him off the wall, kissed him, and whispered, "It'll be fine."

* * *

Three months later, that confidence had completely disappeared as Harry stood in the nursery of the maternity ward, looking down at two small, wriggling things in the same small cot, calm and clinging to each other with one hand.

"Traditionally," the small nurse beside him whispered, "You name them yourselves when you adopt from hospital. The mother refused to see them, so whatever you choose will be their first names…"

Harry looked at Draco. All their pre-planning seemed to have gone completely out the window, and he could tell from the vaguely panicked look on Draco's face that he felt the same way. They had been planning on naming the children after people they had loved, names from their varied and sordid pasts. That was going to be a problem.

Suddenly, standing here, looking down at these brand new lives—lives that had not yet felt pain or suffering, who didn't know about death or loss or sadness—Harry understood Ron and Hermione's decision to not name their children after anyone else.

Draco watched the nurse walk away, and whispered, "Harry. They need their own names…"

Harry smiled. It was, as usual, as though Draco could hear his thoughts. He nodded, "I was just thinking the same thing."

Draco reached over and gently picked up one of the now slightly fussy infants; the baby immediately turned into the touch, and grasped Draco's forefinger, making his breath hitch slightly, his eyes welling. Harry was completely enraptured; Draco's face was flooded with love, instant and resolute. Harry recognized the facial expression, since he was used to it being directed at him, but couldn't muster an ounce of jealousy. He knew exactly how Draco felt, and could not fathom it for the life of him. There was no biological tie to this moment for either of them, but they had been immediately and irrevocably changed nonetheless. Just by being here, now.

Draco cleared his throat gently and muttered, "Henry."

"Perfect. Middle name?"

"Dunno… we can work on that. He should probably have a more interesting, archaic middle name…"

Harry laughed, but walked over and picked up the other baby, who was crying slightly now that her brother was not in close contact. She did not go quiet as her brother had at being lifted, but Harry was too happy to read anything into her tears.

"She's Alice," he said, with confidence whose source he could not place.

"Lovely."

"But her middle name is Violet."

"Well, I don't see why Narcissa, Lily, and Rose shouldn't be in the company of a Violet," Draco said, still staring down at the face of Henry, now sleeping peacefully despite his sister's cries.

"His," Harry added, stepping closer to Draco until their arms touched, both cradling with too much fragility, caution born of lack of practice and slight fear. "Is Rigel."

"Rigel? Why? A bit obscure, don't you think."

"You wanted obscure. Besides which, you can hardly talk,  _ Draco _ . Rigel is—”

"The brightest star in Orion. I know. I just… why?"

"It's the first star that catches your eye. It's strong, bright, and the centre of the sky. It's beautiful."

Draco looked at Harry for the first time in minutes, square in the eye, full on and direct, "But it feels wrong, having it be a star. It feels like there's not enough of you in there."

"Draco, that doesn't matter."

"Well, okay. I actually kind of like it." Draco looked down at the babies again. He smiled.

"We can do this, right?" Harry asked, letting his fear enter his tone for the first time. He felt Draco lean against his arm gently.

"Yes, darling man. We can do this. Welcome to the family, Henry Rigel and Alice Violet. We're pretty excited you are here."

* * *

Another three months, and it was true that, technically, they  _ were  _ doing it; everyone was still alive, relatively well cared for. They were definitely going to have to leave the apartment, sooner rather than later, but for the most part, Harry was blissfully happy.

Well. Okay, mostly.

Not right now, if he was honest. Right now, he was dead exhausted, frustrated, and so confused about what to do next that he was close to tears. He paced his now well-worn track around the lounge, rocking and bouncing and trying not to actually join in with the crying.

"Hen, I will make you a deal, okay? You stop crying, just for a few minutes, and I will buy you the fastest broomstick available, every year, for the rest of your life."

"What if he doesn't like to fly?" Draco said, an annoying smirk in his voice as he closed the bedroom door gently.

"Honestly hadn't considered it," Harry replied, looking up.

"Alice is down. I see the same cannot be said for our man here."

"D, I have no idea what is wrong. He's just… not stopping. I don't know if we're supposed to be worried, or…"

"Right. I'm calling her."

"What? No, Draco, don't. We can figure this out."

"I'm sure given five hours and academic study, we could, but I am bloody tired, and you are about to drop our newborn in your own exhaustion, so I'm calling her."

When Hermione appeared on their hearth, she smiled in the most hilarious, nostalgic way possible considering she was entering a room containing a screaming infant, two dishevelled and frenzied men, and a very disgruntled cat.

"Ah, brings back memories. Here, give him here."

Harry gratefully handed Hermione Henry's red-faced, clenched-fisted, rigid form, then collapsed on the sofa beside Draco, who scrubbed the back of Harry's neck reassuringly.

Hermione made a couple of shushing noises, and then she flipped Henry onto his stomach and held him in a way that would have immediately terrified Harry, but apparently did not phase Henry, who almost immediately stopped crying. Harry threw his head back against the sofa and exhaled loudly. Henry gurgled once, his head down toward the floor, smiled gently, then closed his eyes. Within three minutes, he was asleep. Hermione didn't stop rocking him gently as she padded to the bedroom. When she emerged fifteen minutes later, the silence in the room was almost deafening after the hours of wailing. Draco's head was slumped against the arm of the sofa, and Harry's head was in his hands, dragging his hair off his forehead.

"Harry, don't look so anguished. It happens. He's just gassy; you might want to change his formula," Hermione whispered. "Now, both of you, go sleep while they are asleep. And call more often, would you? You really don't need to be doing this all alone. I've been through this two separate times, and you are both saints for doing it twice at the same time, I can promise you."

"'Mione. Thank you."

"Of course. You’re family, remember?"

He stood to hug her. "Hermione, I love you. I don’t even know—” 

She smiled and hugged him back. "Bed,” she commanded.

* * *

The first few years of growing up pass by quickly for most people; there are moments that stretch out before you and feel like decades while they happen, but inevitably, the years pass you by without much permission to move as fast as they do. The times of trials and impossible things quickly disappear, and even when they were at their worst, the moments of exciting new things, the watching in wonder, it far outweighed the cost of the hard times.

Harry and Draco turned into Parents almost overnight. Everyone made it out of those first colicky months, with considerable help and much sleep deprivation. 

They moved to a house on the edge of town, with a garden and a hedge wall, and a tire swing that Harry fixed immediately. The type of house he would have grown up in if things had been different. The type of house that he was endlessly happy he could provide his own children with now.

His career decision fit this new life perfectly; he took copious amounts of time off when he wanted to in order to be home when the children were sick or when their primary school had terrible class plays and parent nights. He took them both to every place he had wished he had gone when he was small. There was always laughter and adventures; there were games, and dinners together, and time spent sitting in the garden, just listening to idle, five-year-old twin chatter in confused awe. There were fights, of course, between Henry and Alice, between Draco and Harry, between any number of combinations in between. There were an infinity of new moments and exciting milestones.

But mostly, there was love. 

Draco was less aware of these things than Harry was and after the first year or so with the twins, he stopped pointing them out, because they seemed to cause Draco pain rather than the sheer, unfettered joy that he was feeling; he figured it was because reminding Draco of how shitty his own early childhood had been was not exactly helpful to their 'moving on' plan. Especially since Draco's childhood had gone on almost the opposite trajectory. 

That’s not how Harry felt, though. When Henry lost his first tooth, and Harry shoved a galleon under his pillow while he slept, he had wept with happy tears in the kitchen before Draco even woke up. When Alice scraped her knee falling off the swing and he kissed away the booboo before going to get kitten plasters and a chocolate frog from the village, he’d had to fight the urge to hug her for an hour. When both children saw their first play, watching with unreserved excitement as giant, furry bunnies hopped across the stage, Harry could barely contain his own glee at their happiness. He revelled in these moments. 

They were moments that he had almost lost.


	16. Inheritance

Suddenly, the kids were nine, and Harry honestly couldn't say where the time had gone. Hilariously, even though Harry and Draco had nothing biologically to do with their creation, the twins looked very much like the light and dark contrast of their parents. Alice's soft, feathered blond hair framed her small face, quietly strong and defiant. Draco had learned to handle her hair himself early on, announcing to Harry 'you can't even handle your own hair, you aren't touching our daughter's'. Much like her father, Alice's fair complexion didn't always seem to go with her personality. Alice, in Ron's words, was a spitfire and should have been a redhead. She was as stubborn and full of convictions as Harry had always been, and had been since she had first started speaking. She would be formidable, always.

Henry, with dark hair and ice blue eyes, was as starkly featured as he was quiet. He was an observer of scenes. Like Draco, he commented only once he knew the score, and made decisions carefully. Whereas Alice would run into the first thing that captured her fancy, Henry would watch, listen, all before carefully selecting the thing he would have chosen first anyway.

Harry couldn't wait for them to start Hogwarts. He felt their magic all around the house, a thing which Hermione said she'd always noticed when the kids were at home, too. Sure, it was different, having them grow up in the Magical World, but they went to Muggle school, and everything had to be done with caution. He wanted them to go to school, and have houses and magical friends, to grow up and yet stay this age forever. Every year felt like their best year ever, and Harry was worried it was slipping away a little too fast.

This year had begun what Hermione referred to as the 'pre-preteen phase', and Harry was just noticing his little, wriggling children becoming more and more independent. It made him scared and immensely proud all at once, just another in the long line of conflicted emotions that had come with marriage, with parenting.

Draco and Alice were fighting a bit more than usual, and Harry knew it was because he was asserting boundaries before she went away to school, and at the same time, she was pushing back. Draco was terrified that Alice was too much like Harry, and since he knew about literally everything Harry had ever done, he was afraid of what that was to come.

He felt very little shock, therefore, when he walked down their street one day after work and encountered his daughter, hair whipping all around in the wind, bright red coat tightly buttoned and her hands shoved deep in the pockets. There was a very full rucksack on her back and a determined expression plastered on her face. She noticed Harry right away and was flustered before he’d even spoken. 

"Alice," he said casually, nodding to her as though encountering a mere acquaintance. 

Even though she’d seen him, she jumped and looked so much like Draco that he had to fight to suppress a laugh. There was so much of both of them in her movements, in her personality. They always touched him in his core, these little moments of belonging from them.

"Dad!” she cried. “You scared me."

"Headed out?"

"I-I'm.…" Alice stuttered. She raised her chin and Harry waited for the steely resolve he knew was coming, watched as it clicked into place. She cleared her throat and started again. "I am running away,” she concluded stonily. 

"I see. Any particular reason?" he asked lightly.

"Because Baba is being utterly unreasonable. Again!"

Harry smiled; he wasn't sure how much longer the two different names thing was going to last. The other day, he had heard Alice say 'dad, no other dad' to one of her school friends. It felt like the days of  _ 'Baba _ ' might be numbered; he'd have to warn Draco. Sure, the name had never made sense, born largely of Henry's inability to say 'p' when he was little. But still.

He refocused on Alice seriously.

"Ah...fair enough. Well, mind how you go. Did you pack some food?"

She eyed him suspiciously, obviously confused about his easy acceptance of her disappearance. "Yes,” she replied hesitantly. 

"And warm socks?"

"Yes.

"So, you're all set. Hey, Al…"

She inhaled sharply. "You can't stop me, Dad."

"No, I wasn't going to. I mean, it's up to you if you want to run away, but Al… were you just going to leave Henry behind?"

Alice looked up at him, clearly a bit taken aback. She cleared her throat, "Henry'll be fine."

"Will he? Who is going to speak up for him when he's too shy? And who is going to check under your bed when you're scared on the run?"

Alice looked down, "You can't trick me, Dad. I… I'm nine.” She whispered, almost to herself. “You can't trick me."

"Okay!" Harry said brightly. "I'll make sure I tell Henry you said he'd be fine."

Alice sighed deeply and looked up at Harry, before turning on her heel, taking his hand, and starting to walk with him towards the house. Harry grinned. He was going to have to stop being so worried about these kids; he had a few more years of predictability left in their choices and behaviour before he lost them to teen angst.

"So, wanna tell me what Baba did that was so unreasonable?" Harry asked idly as they walked toward the house.

Alice sighed a world-weary sigh. "He won't let me take horseback riding with Abigail this term."

"You want to take horseback riding?" Harry questioned, genuinely surprised. 

"Dad. Yes. I  _ love  _ horses!"

This was news to Harry, but he figured it was likely because Alice had only  _ loved  _ horses for approximately twenty-four hours. Unlike Henry, whose obsessions and desires were resolute, Alice’s fancies were fleeting and ever-changing. He’d already stopped trying to keep up.

"Can you make him let me, Dad?" Alice begged, looking up at him as though he had the answer. Harry cleared his throat. 

"Well. You know, Al. He only said no because he wants to make sure you really want to do this; you know if you start, he's going to make you take it until the end of the term. So,” he paused on the sidewalk and looked down at her. “How could you convince him that you really, really want to?"

Alice went silent for the rest of the walk, and screamed, " _ Henry Rigel. Meeting! Now!" _ the second they got inside.

Draco was standing by the island with a mug of tea, and simply quirked an eyebrow.

"She was running away. Horses?"

Draco smirked. "Oh, I see. Yes. Horses, apparently."

"Should we maybe just let her?” Harry asked quietly. “It's just a new thing."

"There's always new things, Hare,” Draco lamented. “There has to be a line."

Harry shrugged. "Why? She's nine. What if she's just looking for the thing she loves? I don’t see any harm."

"Such a sap, you." Draco laughed as Harry looped his arms around his shoulders, kissed his neck and stole his tea. Draco shivered and complained, but Harry just sipped from the mug while hanging off of him. 

"Stop," Draco argued finally, squirming away. "You're freezing.”   
  
“It’s cold out,” he shrugged.   
  
“So what,” Draco grumbled. “We just let her ride horses?”    
  
Harry smiled. “Not yet. She's going to  _ convince  _ you."

"What?" Draco laughed. "How?"

"No idea." Harry beamed at him and downed the rest of his tea, setting the mug down and dodging Draco’s well-timed stinging jinx as he ran upstairs to change. 

After dinner that night, while Henry cleared up by carefully stacking dishes beneath the cleaning charm that Draco set for him in the sink with a lazy wand flick, they watched Alice fidget in her chair. Harry was tired but content and he couldn’t help but be a little curious. The twins had been suspiciously quiet for the entire hour before supper. It was never a good sign, and Harry suspected he was not going to be disappointed in her methods for convincing Draco. 

On his last trip back to the table, Henry very pointedly cleared his throat.

"Oh! Right!” Alice jerked out of her chair. “Now?"

Henry nodded, then walked quickly out of the room.

Alice stood up, cleared her throat, and put on what he was pretty sure was supposed to be her 'adult' voice before saying, "Okay. Baba. Dad. I, Alice Violet Potter-Malfoy, am going to prove to you that I want to do horseback riding and that I will be very responsible when I do it and not ask to quit in the winter or anything. If you will kindly follow me." She bowed a deep bow but popped back up before it really had any impact. “Oh! And Henry is going to help me.” 

Draco looked at Harry with a long-suffering stare that fooled no one because of the humour behind his eyes, and they followed Alice into the living room. Where they found Henry on all fours, in a cardboard stable, a yarn tail and a mop for a mane. 

Harry had to stifle a laugh as Alice very seriously explained all the things she knew about horses. She then went into detailed a surprisingly detailed break-down of how much Muggle money the lessons would cost. And how she was going to stay in the course until the very end of term, even if she hated it more than she hated Aunt Andromeda's pea casserole.

She finished quietly and looked not to Harry, who she knew she did not actually need to convince, but at Draco. Her piercing green eyes melted slowly as he smiled broadly at her. Harry honestly had no idea how Draco managed to resist giving her anything when she looked at him like that; which, he supposed, was how Draco had ended up in the role as bad cop. He might have felt guilty if he hadn't known that Draco liked being seen as the strict one, while at the same time, privately gushing to Harry about how proud he was of both their children. He was as big a sap as Harry, underneath the cold, I-was-a-Pureblood-once shell. Harry shuddered to think what Draco would be like without the warmth and the love that he also threw at Alice and Henry. But then, he supposed he already knew; Draco, after all, was nothing like Lucius.

Still, later, when they were in bed, Harry couldn’t help bringing it up one more time, just to be sure.

"So. She can ride horses?"

"Yeah, I guess so. I'm totally telling you 'I told you so' the second she wants to quit.” though."

"She seems pretty adamant this time."

"She  _ always  _ does. And you always fall for it. I don't know why you're so easy on her and so hard on Henry."

"Same reason you're so hard on Alice and so easy on Henry. She's my favourite."

Draco burst out laughing. "I really don’t think you are supposed to have favourite children, Harry Potter."

Harry grinned. "Well, no. But everyone knows that's bullshit. I  _ love  _ them both equally, but that doesn't mean I don't have a favourite. I can't wait to see if they end up in the same houses at school. Fred and George were so similar. Our twins don't seem similar enough to be in the same house."

Draco went very still, slithering down into the sheets a little bit further and casting a surreptitious look at him. 

"Harry. I've, er, been meaning to talk to you about that,” he began delicately. “School, I mean. Ed and I were talking a few months back and, well, I’ve started thinking, that—"

"Draco, I hate when you get all… reticent. It is extremely worrying,” Harry interrupted. “Spit it out."

Draco rolled his eyes. “I knew that 'word a day' calendar was a bad idea. You should not be using fancy words. Okay. Well, hear me out okay?”   
  
Harry nodded, already unsure if he could actually keep that promise. Still, Draco went on.   
  
“I've been thinking… maybe we should send the kids abroad. For school."

Harry looked at him sharply. "Abroad? As in,  _ not  _ Hogwarts."

"Generally, that is my meaning, yes. France, specifically.” Draco turned to face Harry, propping himself up on an elbow. “Think about it! They can see Paris and the ocean. Use their French. We can visit during breaks, or they can come home. It’s not that much further, really. Plus, I mean, we're wizards, it's not as though it would be difficult to—” 

"No."

Draco sighed. "Harry—"

"No, Draco. I'm not sending them somewhere else. They're going to  _ Hogwarts _ , where we know the grounds and the customs, and we can help them if we need to, and where their friends and cousins will be. I'm not separating them from that. How can  _ you  _ want that?"Harry was aware that he was shouting, and also possibly shaking. He hadn’t felt that way, so quickly, in a long, long time. 

"Harry, calm down,” Draco murmured delicately, reaching a hand out to hold Harry’s arm. “You're going to get yourself into a panic. It was just an idea. I've been thinking about how hard is going to be to be at Hogwarts carrying our last names. I just thought maybe a fresh start would do them good."

"Yeah, well, I don't."

"Okay, then,” Draco quipped. “You didn't need to shout at me to explain that."

Harry took a deep breath, tried for a tone of reason when he explained further. "Think of how much they'd miss, Draco! Houses and the hidden passages and Honeydukes."

"But there's nothing to say that they wouldn't get that, or better, at another school. Nostalgia is clouding your judgement. Because at Hogwarts, they are also going to get preconceptions about me. Grief about you. Have you forgotten that you are still famous?” Draco laid back down. “We’ve worked so hard to keep them out of the press all these years. What if we just gave them a fresh start? Wasn't that the goal, a decade ago? To give them their own futures?"

"Not like this. Not by sending them away,” Harry growled, turning away from Draco. “Drop it, D. I don't want to discuss this."

Draco sat up again and pulled Harry’s shoulders so they were facing each other again. This time, Draco’s face held a tinge of red, fury creeping into his mild-mannered struggle have a sensible discussion. “Yeah, well, too bad, Potter.  _ I _ want to discuss this, and since you have a say, you must also discuss this. Do you have any actual reasons beyond 'it's not Hogwarts’?"

Harry glared at Draco. His hands felt clammy and was starting to see in the tunnel that came before a panic attack. He was mad because Draco was right. The shouting had started to send him into a panic and he didn't know what to do about it other than to finish this conversation now so that he didn't have to have it again. He took another deep breath. 

"Yes, Draco. I have actual reasons. First, they are English. They are going to be foreigners who didn’t grow up there. Sure, they'd likely learn, but do we want them to have to? And before you go there, no, it doesn’t matter that they speak French. It’s not the same. Second, they’d be away from all their wizarding friends and they'd be in gendered classrooms. I don't want Alice in that for all of her teenage years.  _ Or  _ Hen, for that matter. ”    
  
Draco was just looking at him. Although he still seemed frustrated with Harry, he was also stroking his arm, the soothing up and down movement unconsciously calming Harry’s breathing. He was listening carefully, and Harry continued after a moment. 

“Plus, I do not want them staying with Ed, ever. With his women and booze and not sleeping? Living like that at his age is not what I want them seeing. And, I know you. We'd never make it up on weekends and then we would spend the whole of actual holiday breaks with me exploring with the kids while you catch up with Ed—code, of course, for drinking yourself silly. Absolutely not.” Harry paused and looked away. 

“Their whole lives, I have been imagining them in the castle. Getting sorted. Climbing those stairs. The owlery. I think you are making a bigger deal of the whole war history than the kids will. Our children are strong. You aren't giving them enough credit."

Draco didn't respond immediately. Instead, he turned onto his back and spent many moments staring at the crack in the ceiling of their room, the one Harry had been meaning to fix for ages. He still had a hold of Harry’s arm, and he turned his hand over to lace their fingers together. There was something he wasn’t saying. Harry let Draco get there in his own time. 

Finally, with a faint voice, he asked, "I’m scared they’ll get bullied. Because of me. Because of my family. The war.” 

Harry slumped a bit. It was just like Draco to make him get angry before just explaining his real motives, to make Harry feel petty without meaning to. Still, he turned Draco’s face toward his own and put their foreheads together. 

"Do you really think that Alice Violet Potter-Malfoy would allow that to happen?” he asked with a smile. “I half expect they will spend the first two weeks of in the Headmistresses office."

Draco smiled a small smile, but the furrow in his brow remained. He didn’t pull away, but proposed, “Can we ask them? Does that make any sense?"

"Sure. Probably fair. No one ever bothered to ask either of us. But ultimately, I think we have to decide."

Draco smirked, bolstered by the fact that Harry seemed to have relaxed a bit.

"I suppose it would be unfair to stop them from seeing the glory of the Slytherin common room,” he mused. 

"I reckon they'll both be Ravenclaw, actually."

"Sacrilege!” He kissed Harry and turned back to the ceiling. “Fine. If they want to, they can go to Hogwarts. I suppose I should have anticipated that reaction."

"You'd think, after all this time. But you never learn."

"I learn. I just forget how stubborn you actually are. Bastard."

"Wanker,” Harry retorted. “You know you love it. You'd hate not being challenged on every decision."

"Unfortunately for me, I feel you may be right."

 

_ It counted up our feelings...And divided them up even...And it called our calculation _

_ Perfect love _

_ -Regina Spektor _


	17. Meander

The blur that hit them all a few years later, of course, felt nothing like the horses. Harry would wind up longing for the horse argument the August the twins got their letters. The Hogwarts argument felt like a very small blip when Draco saw the faces of his children, swathed in excitement as they unravelled the parchment from McGonagall. Of course, he could have argued that they would have been just as excited with letters from any wizarding school. He could have argued that school was school, the promise of freedom and magic and new adventures would have been the same no matter where they went. He could have pointed this all out.

He did not.

It became clear to Draco almost immediately that Harry was stressed. That this was going to be a very difficult time. Perhaps the most difficult thing they had faced since  _ Before _ . Draco tried to be silent in his support. He only reached out and offered a hand in comfort when he felt Harry wake in a panic beside him in the middle of the night. He took the kids to the cinema when he saw Harry having a bad day.

But he also knew that he and Harry would have time after to deal with whatever the fallout ended up being, and so he also forced Harry to participate. Draco made him come to Diagon for the shopping. He made Harry choose owls for each of the kids. He made him be present and a part of this last chunk of time where their children were truly theirs. Harry didn't know, really, how much going away to school changed family relationships. He hadn't experienced it, and so he thought he knew what it was going to be like, but he didn't. Not really. Which was fine, but Draco didn't want him regretting this time by missing out on their last summer as truly their children.

Suddenly, trunks were packed, last suppers on the beach were had, trips to London undertaken, and fearful platform conversations were had. Even after all this time, they both commented on how strange it was to not be on the steamer as it pulled out of the station, as they waved until they could no longer even see the black caboose. Eventually, Draco pulled Harry off the nearly-empty platform, and they both got horrendously drunk at the house.

Draco was already nostalgic.

That had been last week. Last week, the empty house and hollow silence had felt new and exhilarating, missing for eleven years and suddenly feeling very hard won. This week, though, the novelty had worn off, and Draco had simultaneously gotten very ill. So pedestrian, having the flu. It could have at least been Dragon Pox.

It was Wednesday, and Draco had been off work for three days. He'd slept most of the morning, but he still felt awful and was now garishly awake. Awake and miserable and  _ bored _ . Desperate, he had owled Harry at the DA and then instantly regretted the pathetic nature of that choice. It wasn't like him, to be needy and dependent. He felt so ridiculous, he’d almost sent another owl telling Harry to ignore his desperate plea for company.

He'd fretted and regretted endlessly, until Harry had shown up an hour later with a carrier bag and a wry expression. As Harry stood over him looking slightly concerned but mostly amused, Draco took in the gently lined face of progressing age. Harry looked just the slightest bit wiser in the sensible new glasses Ron had convinced him to buy; he had greying sideburns with receding only noticeable to Draco because he knew every inch of this face. As Harry looked down at him with bemused pity, Draco’s regret was replaced with relief and love, and confusion as to how he could still be so enamoured, how he could still need Harry this much. Even after all this time.

The feeling made him smile weakly.

"Sorry,” he said hoarsely. “I didn't mean to be so needy, but I have to say, I am strangely and extremely happy you are here."

Harry’s smile turned soft and warm. "It's okay, love. Makes a nice change, a nice role reversal, to be needed. Besides, you haven't been sick enough take time off since...  _ Merlin _ , I don't even remember."

"The twins were two,” Draco supplied.

"Exactly. I think you’ve earned some nursemaid love.” Harry placed a hand on his forehead. “How are you feeling?"

Draco smirked. "Like shit, to be honest."

"Well, luckily, I've been an extremely cliched husband and brought you three different soups, and that ridiculously overpriced tea you like. I also bought When Harry Met Sally, partly because I know you are a giant sap about Meg Ryan, but mostly because it made me laugh when I saw it. I can't believe I haven't been calling you 'Sally' for years. The nickname is right there."

"Well, you can't start now. Thanks, though. Can you... can you stay?"

"Yup. It's Ollie's evening, so I just bunked off a few hours early. Owner perks," Harry said, winking. Harry had been flirting outrageously since the day the twins left, and it kept making Draco laugh, it made him so stupidly happy.

Harry hadn't ever had to work too hard to turn him on, but this humorously overt affection and double entendre kept making Draco blush like a teenager. Harry had always been the one to flirt first, but he'd toned it down as they'd grown older. 

Understandably, appropriately. But now? He hadn't said anything, but Draco knew Harry well enough to know that he was worried; worried that the kids being gone would destroy their relationship. That they would be like so many couples who ran out of things to talk about with their kids gone, that they’d be unable to recover from the drastic change. Draco knew better. He was as in love, as fascinated, as captivated by Harry as he had been since that day in the Ministry breakroom. 

So instead of worrying back, Draco smiled at the wink and tried to look appealing as he replied.

"Good, come watch it with me,” he rasped, wincing at the pain in his throat. 

"So needy," Harry sighed, though he was already kicking off his shoes and lying down next to Draco, snuggling close and drawing Draco's arm across his body.

"You'll get sick too," Draco half-protested, trying not to let his comfort show.

Harry ignored him, snuggling in close and pulling the blankets up his torso. "I've already got it if I'm going to get it. And more importantly, you have 'snuggle me' written all over your face," Harry said, stroking Draco's hair out of his eyes as he shivered. "Did you take something? Pretty sure you have a fever."

Draco didn't reply, just put his head on Harry's chest and let his achy body melt into the comfort and familiarity as Harry wandlessly put the film on. Draco loved this movie, but he could barely keep his body on the surface of consciousness. He let himself fall asleep, secure in the knowledge that it didn't matter if everything had changed. 

The thing that was  _ Harry-and-Draco _ had survived much more difficult trials.

* * *

Harry would remind Draco of this statement four years later, when at the age of fifteen, Alice brought home a Muggle named Terrance from the horse camp she still insisted on going to every summer. During dinner, Draco had been perfectly civil, and not at all creepy. He'd even managed to keep the magic under wraps.

The calmness vanished the second that Alice and 'Terry' left for a film in town.

"A  _ Muggle _ ?" he cried.

Harry smiled gently at him. "Draco—"

"She isn't even old enough to be dating!" he continued. 

"D, she's fifteen,” Harry protested.

"But a  _ Muggle _ ? How can you be okay with this."

"Because I am. Lots of people we know are Muggles."

"What if they have Muggle children?"

"Draco! Then they  _ have Muggle children _ ,” Harry argued. “Are you really going to continue down this path with me?”    
  
Draco scoffed once but relented when he saw the seriousness of Harry’s expression. “I doubt anyone would have predicted that you were going to be the one with your daughter dating,” he sulked.

Harry shrugged. “He's her first boyfriend. Calm down."   
  


Draco tried to calm down, but instead, he grumbled and muttered most of the way through the next few years. He whined for the first year that his daughter dated Terry 'long distance', complained for the next two years as well. When Alice finished her O.W.L.s with decent marks, and left school, but did not move back home, Draco fought with her long and hard not to move in with her boyfriend.   
  
Harry was the one who talked him down when Alice went to the Ministry for a release of the Secrecy Act for Terry, although Draco had stayed calmer than Terry had when she had revealed that she was a witch. 

None of these little things, however, prepared him for the day that Alice wandered into the house one day the spring she was eighteen and announced that she was engaged to Terry, that she wanted to marry him in the garden. 

In three months.

Draco listened to the entire speech Alice had prepared, but was confused as to why he was now the only angry one. When she finally finished and no one had said anything, at all, Draco lost what was truly left of his cool. He whipped around to face his husband. 

"Harry! Why on earth are you just standing there!? Say something!"  
  
Harry cleared his throat and stared at them both for a moment. "Does seem a bit unnecessary, darling,” he finally said to Alice gently. You are both so young. What's the rush?"

"That is not what I meant!" Draco shouted. "You are absolutely not marrying that man. You are  _ eighteen _ !"

But Alice shrugged and looked only at Harry, responding to the question she had been asked and ignoring the irate blush on Draco’s face. "Dad, I love him. Why should I wait? You and Ba know that better than most people, I think. Why delay happiness?"

Harry nodded, and Draco attempted to launch into another argument. Harry held up a hand. "Alice, why don't you give us a few minutes. I think your Ba is really just a bit shocked. Henry is in the garden."

She nodded once but did leave through the back door. 

Draco reeled on Harry in what was an extremely predictable way. "You cannot be serious? We are not allowing this. I am putting my foot down.”

Harry studied the floor, arms crossed and considering his words carefully. It was not a good sign, nor was the resolute set to his chin. Draco sighed before he even spoke; somehow, he was about to lose his daughter.

"Sure we are,” Harry declared with a small shrug. “Think about it Draco. First of all, she's  _ Alice _ . We say no, she'll just get married without us there, which I know you don't want.”    
  
“That doesn’t mean we have to—”

"Secondly,” Harry interrupted, “she's almost 19. She's not rushing into it or anything. It’s  _ Terry _ . It’s not like she’s rushing into this.”    
  
“I told you Muggle was a bad idea.”    
  
“Draco,” Harry teased. “She loves him. If anyone had tried to stop us, especially the second time, would we have listened? If you’re honest with yourself?” 

Draco sighed, "No, but we were adults.”    
  
“Hate to break it you, my love,” Harry chuckled. “So is she.” 

“Draco, the unreasonable, yet again,” Draco groaned. 

"She was expecting you to say no. Don’t worry. She won’t be upset. I just… I don't want to lose her over something so trivial.”    
  
“What if it  _ is  _ a mistake though, Hare? What if she’s miserable.”    
  
“That’s not really for us to decide. It is either going to be perfectly fine, or it will crash and burn, and a few years of wisdom isn't going to change that. Lots of people marry young. Lots of people stay happily married. There is no reason the two can't be connected. You'll get used to it, and you will be happy for them, Draco, so help me. Besides, she'll want you to walk her down the aisle."

"What, no she won't... she'd obviously want you. Why would you say that?"

"You're her favourite.” Harry shrugged. "She told me that once, ages ago."

Draco looked out the kitchen window, into the garden where their two no-longer-children children were laughing and fighting over the swing. He hung his head at the weird, incongruous familiarity of it all. He sighed again.

"Shit,” he declared suddenly, his whole body collapsing slightly at the word. “So. This is it, is it? We’re done? Is this it? They’re just fully formed people now and that's it? I'm supposed to sit by and watch them do…  _ things _ , make choices. I just have to deal with it all, from now on?"

"Always the melodrama,” Harry laughed. “Draco. You rang your mother last week to ask how to re-pot a lilac. We'll never be  _ done.  _ We just have to let them try the next steps on their own, and be there for when it doesn't work."

They stood side-by-side in silence for a moment longer. Draco tried to piece together his reasons, the way he always insisted the rest of his family should. He couldn't quite get past the only reason being that his little girl was  _ his _ , and not someone else's, not yet. But that wasn't really enough, he knew that. 

Draco stepped into Harry's embrace, forcing him to wrap his arms around his shoulders in a practised way so he didn't fall over. He sighed one last time but vowed to put the melodrama away. Harry kissed his temple and shook him gently.    
  
"Oh fine,” he declared. “I guess he’s not a bad bloke. For a Muggle.” Harry batted him across the head. “Also, he didn't run when she turned his mug into a mouse, so maybe that's a sign of something."

"That's the spirit," Harry teased resting his head on Draco’s shoulder. They watched the twins in the window a moment longer. 

"How old was she? When she said I was her favourite?"

Harry laughed. "Don't remember... seven? Maybe eight?"

"Bet you it was after the Mum thing."

"Possibly. I'm proud of you Draco. This really hasn't taken you as long as it should have to get over. I think we've both become soft in our old age."

"Speak for yourself,” Draco scoffed, shoving Harry off and going to the door. “I am as unreasonable and stubborn as I was when I was 20."

"Lies and falsehoods. You are a mushy pile of emotional baggage and  _ feelings _ , and you shall never fool me. You loooove us. You want the beeest for us."

"Yeah, yeah. Fine. Just don't tell people."


	18. Coda

Which is how, almost twenty-five years to the day after her Dad married her Baba, Alice was married. On the beach, seven days after her nineteenth birthday. It felt strange, being married, dress and all. Not that she wasn't pleased, or ready, or happy. But it did feel strange. The party had been good fun, combining a bewildered half of Terry's family and her own, slightly moshed family of sorts, who had done their best to heed the request for no wizard-y shenanigans and had somehow managed to be more ridiculous for it.

The party had turned into such a wonderful kerfuffle that she had asked Terry if they could stay, rather than head to the city that night. She'd been prepared to beg, but he'd acquiesced immediately, in large part because he was clearly concerned about what happened if they left the two families alone together.

It was now quite late, and Henry was drunk. She had been dispatched to the gazebo at the end of the garden to deal with this last fact, and was glad when she found him that she had gone to fetch him when she did.

"Henry! Get down. What on earth are you doing?"

He laughed at her, but hopped delicately off the garden wall, as though he was always acrobatic and lythe. Only her brother would get  _ more  _ agile when drunk. He sat promptly on the edge of the wall and motioned for her to sit down next to him.

"You know, Leecy, when I am very rich, I shall see the fanciest show on the west end,” he declared as she sat down. “I shall sit in a box and wear a tuxedo, and I shall order oysters.” 

He leapt from his seat and offered her his hand. She jumped down to stand beside him and held onto his hand as they walked back to the gate where her fairy garden had once been hidden inside the rhododendron bush. She’d have to check later if it was still there.

“I shall also carry on,” Henry continued. “I shall carry on so much that they ask me to leave because no matter how rich I am, I am distracting the actors and causing danger.”   
  
He swung himself up onto the gate and waited expectantly for Alice to push him. They had always had a swing in their yard; so, naturally, they had always used the gate as a piece of play equipment. She could almost  _ hear  _ Baba behind them, yelling for them to stop before they broke the hinges. 

"Strictly speaking," Alice replied, reaching out to unlatch the wrought iron. "I'm pretty sure we already are rich."

"Dads are rich,” Henry argued. “That's not the same. Besides, that's  _ wizard  _ rich. It doesn't count."

"It probably would, you know. If you converted it."

Henry swung back and forth a few times, with Alice carefully avoiding touching the metal with her long gown. Finally, he picked up enough speed to jump down. They both burst into laughter and he grabbed her hand again so that they could start walking across the yard. Henry paused at their handmade bench and sat down heavily. 

"Alice, do you ever think that our lives have been very strange?" he asked quietly. 

She sat down beside him and leaned into his side. She was suddenly very tired. "What, because we have two dads?" she replied. 

"No, no. Because we have  _ our  _ two dads. Famous, war. All the stories and stuff, especially about Ba."

Alice shrugged. "I've never really noticed."

This wasn't strictly true. Not really. Alice had been noticing for a very long time that their lives were very unusual. Of course, there had been the initial realisation, way back when at primary school. When Horrible Claire had pointed out that she didn't have a mummy, and that meant she was an orphan. They had been reading  _ The Witches _ at the time, so Alice knew just what that meant. Even at seven, the irony had not been lost on her that a book that had magic and witches wrong would be the way he realised she was adopted.

That day, she’d run all the way home in tears and found that Baba was the only one in the house. He’d scooped her up immediately, searching for injury and demanding to know who he had to call to make things right. When she’d finally sobbed out the truth of the story, he’d sighed and bundled her into his arms. He’d held her all the way around the kitchen while he made cocoa; she still remembered that bit. Draco had never really carried them. Once they could both walk, he expected them to do so. There were rare moments of exception, but even then, she only really remembered Dad doing the carrying.   
  
Yet, that day, he’d held her and told her all about what he was doing. He'd made the cocoa, and kept her in his arms as they sat together in the big red chair. He’d stroked her hair until she calmed down. Handed her a tissue and pulled off her shoes.

Then he'd told her the story, of how he and daddy had been blessed to care for them a little better than their first mummy. He’d explained how there was no way for them to be orphans because even if something  _ did  _ happen to him and daddy, they had so many people who would love them who would take care of them instead. Aunt Ginny and Uncle Ed. Auntie Hermione and Uncle Ron. Even Uncle Neville and Aunt Luna. They were her family, too. Alice, he explained, would always have a family. She had fallen asleep in his lap that afternoon and never again worried about not having a mum.

Later, when she fought with him, she would remember that afternoon, and hold onto it, cherish it. Ba was not always affectionate, but he loved them, all of them, and she knew. That's how she ignored the rumours, especially once they got to Hogwarts; it was easy to ignore the stories and the whispers about her parents, about her last names, because she knew who they were really. She knew what they stood for. 

It was sometimes bad, and occasionally, dangerous, but she knew they were always safe because they had  _ Potter  _ and  _ Malfoy  _ to call whenever they needed. The stories should have scared her; instead, they taught her how brave both her parents had always been, how strong they had made each other.

Alice was about to remind Henry of this story, but he had already moved on, his alcohol-ravaged brain latching onto another thought. 

"Has Dad told you the story yet? Of how he almost died?" Henry all but whispered.

Alice just sighed. Henry was always tangential. It was good to know it got worse when he drank.

"We all know that story, dinkbrains. There was a  _ war _ ."

"Not that time. The other time, when he was first with Ba. He was depressed."

Alice looked at him sharply. "Wait, what? No. Don't tell me. I'll ask him myself."

Henry leaned on her head and sounded very macabre when he said, "I can't believe you are leaving me, Alice."

"I'm not leaving you, don't be so dramatic."

"Fine, but it won't be the same. What'll I do without you?"

"Whatever you like, Henny Penny."

"I'm going to go to London."

"Okay?"

"I  _ am _ !” he insisted. “I want to study law."

Alice laughed. "What, Muggle law? Why? That’s so  _ boring. _ "

"Dunno, really. Except, I kinda want to do what Ba does, only he's always complaining that he wished he knew more Muggle law basics to help him. I think it sounds fun."

"No, it doesn't,” Alice said, wrinkling her nose at the thought. “You'll have to... use a computer and write with biros, and go to a University with people who don't know Quidditch. That sounds awful. Besides, how are you going to get in? You finished Muggle school in Year six.”

"McGonagall helped me write my A levels in my last term of sixth year. Before the O.W.L.s. I didn't do too badly, either. I could get in."

Alice eyed her brother carefully. He seemed genuinely serious, if still a bit glassy-eyed and swaying. Generally, when Henry got to the point of declaring something, the plan had already gone through seven iterations in his head. It was usually wise to take him seriously. She sat up and laughed. 

"Blimey. Henry. You really are a frigging genius. How come I shared a womb with you and got none of that?"

"You got all the people skills,” Henry teased.

"Have you told them yet?" Alice asked. 

"No. I was going to tell them when I got my results back, but then someone had to go and get  _ engaged _ ."

"Psh. I had it easy, comparatively,” Alice warned. “They aren't going to like it. London is  _ evil _ , remember?"

"Oh, whatever. Dad still works in the city, and Ba is only out here now because the Ministry transferred him to keep an eye on the regional office. They're hypocrites."

Alice laughed. “Think I'll let  _ you  _ tell them that."

Henry sighed, "It feels like the end of an era. Us telling them things separately."

Alice punched him gently. "God, you're awfully morose today."

"You look beautiful, Leecy. Really. I'm happy, for both of you."

"Thanks, HRP."

"Ugh, no. We've talked about that. No initials. That's such a... Dad thing."

Alice laughed again before she dragged him by back to the garden tent, where things were still in full party mode. The old people were still dancing unashamedly to some ancient Weird Sisters ballad. Rose, with her baby, balanced carefully on her hip, was cringing at her parents; Uncle Ron was spinning Aunt Hermione around and around, and she was laughing like a teenager. Her Dad was holding onto Ba for dear life; they were clearly drunk, and therefore clinging embarrassingly to each other.

Alice grinned across at Rose, and sat beside her, touching the soft peach fuzz of a sleeping Holly.

"Sorry about them. You know how they get," she said, gesturing to the dance floor.

Alice sat back and grinned

"You know, Rose, I know it isn't exactly 'cool' to say it, but... I really love them, you know?"

As she said it, Ron had grabbed Draco's hand and spun the four of them into a tight circle. Uncle Nev and Auntie Lu joined them, and they all screamed the final chorus, the general revelry and joy losing the sound into the midnight air. 

"Yeah, Al," Rose smiled back. "I think I know exactly what you mean."

Grinning, Alice grabbed her cousin's hand, and dragged her, baby and all, onto the dance floor to join the circle of their family. It would go on, in this endless circle, for as long as she could make it last. 

_ All Was Well. _

_ Finite Incantatem. _

  
  



End file.
